Unbroken
by DreamsofSpike
Summary: Kurt and his dad are the victims of a violent home invasion. In the aftermath, they struggle to find a way to survive the trauma of what's happened to them, to get back to some kind of normal life... to be unbroken. This is a rape recovery fic, and therefore contains violence, non-con; symptoms of PTSD such as panic attacks, flashbacks, etc. Brief reference to eating disorders.
1. Chapter 1

The sound of the screen door slamming was barely audible to Kurt over the sizzling of the chicken in the pan in front of him. He placed the lid carefully over it and reduced the heat with a critical little frown as he called out to the next room.

"Dinner in ten minutes, Dad."

Burt Hummel appeared in the kitchen doorway, wearing his coveralls, his face and hands smudged with motor oil as he crossed to the stove, sniffing experimentally. "What're we having?"

"Blackened chicken."

Burt gave his son a teasing smirk, quirking a single brow upward. "Didn't we have that once before? The first time you tried to cook, when you were about eight?"

"No," Kurt rolled his eyes with a weary sigh. "That was just plain _black_ chicken. This chicken is blackened with Cajun spices and the proper cooking temperature, not with… overcooking and negligence." Despite his feigned irritation, a bittersweet smile played about his lips at the memory of his own childish efforts.

His dad wasn't the only one who had tried _so, so hard_ to make things normal again in the wake of his mother's death.

Kurt was drawn out of his memories by the realization that his dad was still standing there, a dubious, vaguely distrustful look on his face.

"You'll like it," he assured him with slight impatience. "I promise. It's healthy, but it's spicy."

"I'm sure I will." Burt gave Kurt a warm grin as he headed past him toward the stairs – but couldn't resist ruffling a hand through his son's shower-damp hair first.

"Dad!" Kurt objected – but he left his protest at that, his pleasant – if a bit pensive – mood undeterred.

He'd helped his father in the shop all afternoon, and that was something he very much enjoyed doing, if only to spend quality time with his father doing something they were both good at. Then about an hour earlier, he'd come home and taken a long, hot shower in complete privacy, uninterrupted by the raucous sounds of boys laughing and running footsteps on tile and all the other noisy sounds he'd become accustomed to while using the semi-public showers at Dalton.

It was nice to be back in his own house, with his own things, wearing his own clothes.

It was nice to be back with his dad.

Kurt was happy at Dalton; he really was. He liked being able to freely walk the halls of his school – hand-in-hand with his new boyfriend, if he wanted to – without fear of being mocked or harassed or _worse_, just for _existing_. He liked the fact that his classes were challenging, and that being in the Warblers was stretching his vocal skills, teaching him things he hadn't realized he was missing. He liked the fact that he could feel _safe_ again, for the first time in as long as he could remember.

Still, Kurt found himself a little homesick every now and then.

"It's been a long time since it was just the two of us," Kurt observed as they ate the meal he'd prepared – which was completely delicious, if he said so himself, and Burt seemed to think so too, judging by the speed with which he devoured two platefuls. "This is nice. I mean… don't get me wrong, I love Carole and Finn, and… I'm really glad things are how they are now, but… but this is nice."

Carole and Finn were out of town for a funeral – some distant relative of Finn's father, yet close enough to their family that it was only appropriate for them to go. Opting to avoid the potentially very uncomfortable encounters that such a visit might have involved, Burt had chosen to stay home, and Kurt had been glad for the excuse to come in for the weekend to keep him company.

He spent more weekends home than not, though it wasn't really convenient for him to come home _every_ weekend – but Kurt would have, if he could.

Burt rose from the table, crossing to where Kurt sat to affectionately mess up his hair again. Kurt just smiled, not even bothering to pull away, as his dad's hand lowered to cup his cheek with a hand that was both rough and gentle at the same time for just a moment, before lowering that hand to his shoulder and squeezing lightly.

"I miss you, too, kid," he admitted matter-of-factly before heading off toward the bathroom, not giving the moment time to turn from sweet to awkward. "Meet me in the living room in a few minutes?" he offered. "We can watch a movie or something."

"Okay. Hey, Mercedes said she might drop by later, if that's okay. Not for another couple of hours, probably, but…"

"That's fine, Kurt, she likes movies, too, right?" Burt smiled. "You know, with you out of the house and all, I think I might miss your friends as much as _you_ do."

"Not possible."

Kurt smiled despite the melancholy ache he felt with the words, humming a little to himself as he rose to take care of the dinner dishes. For the moment, he was home, and he meant to enjoy it; there would be plenty of time to miss his dad and his friends later, when he was actually away from them.

He had just finished placing the clean dishes in the draining rack when the sound of the doorbell caught him by surprise. He dried his hands quickly and headed through the living room to the front door, already speaking as he opened it.

"'Cedes, you're early…"

The words died on his lips as someone shoved past him into the house – someone tall and male and definitely _not_ Mercedes.

Someone who wore a black ski mask over his face.

Kurt's stomach lurched with realization that his mind hadn't quite caught up to yet, as another stranger followed the first one, closing and locking the door behind him. Kurt turned toward him to protest the intrusion, but the first man grabbed his arm in a painfully tight grip and spun him around to face him.

The man was tall, slim but muscular, dressed in dark-washed jeans and a turtleneck in a dark, rich shade of blue that Kurt might have admired under different circumstances. It brought out the brilliant blue of the man's eyes – the only facial feature that was clearly distinguishable through the mask that hid his face.

Kurt struggled to pull free, though it was immediately clear that the man was too strong for him to escape. "Let me go!" he demanded anyway, the indignation in his raised voice barely masking its tremor. "What are you…?"

His voice trailed off, his eyes wide with fear as they locked onto the object in the man's free hand – an object that was now being held dangerously close to his face.

A gun.

"Keep your mouth shut, kid, until I tell you to open it," the man sneered, and Kurt looked up at him, chilled by the cruel smile visible through his mask. "Unless you want me to kill you and anybody else in this house."

Kurt's stomach dropped at those words, and he wordlessly, pleadingly shook his head, unable to form words even if he'd been allowed them.

"You alone?" the man holding him demanded with a satisfied smirk at Kurt's reaction.

Kurt hesitated, his gaze darting across the room to where the other man seemed to be inspecting their entertainment center, a gun matching the one currently inches from Kurt's face, in his hand. He noted with a strange sense of surreal detachment – as if he was watching this on some TruTV television program, instead of experiencing it in real life – that the other man was a littler shorter, a little portlier, than the one holding him at gunpoint.

_Might be important to remember that later, when we turn these creeps in for robbing us…_

He could barely process the question, his mouth dry, his heart pounding in his throat, as his mind raced ahead, struggling to make sense of what was happening.

_Robbery… we're being robbed. That's what this is. They just want… want our stuff, and then… they'll go…_

His captor shook him slightly, warningly, as he snarled, "_Answer_ me, kid…" and pressed the gun up under Kurt's chin, pushing his head back slightly.

Kurt's stomach dropped, and he closed his eyes, his breath quickening with panic that he fought to keep at bay.

No, this was no cheesy, melodramatic television program.

This was terrifyingly real.

His mind raced, his lips parted but uncertain, as he struggled to focus on the question the robber had asked him, and tried to think of what was the best way to answer.

_If they don't know Dad's here, then they can't hurt him. Maybe they'll be gone before he even comes back in here. But… if he comes out and surprises them, and he gets… no… _

Kurt couldn't even bring himself to _think_ it.

And then… it happened.

Burt Hummel returned from the bathroom, changed into a comfortable t-shirt and pair of shorts, stopping short in the living room doorway – but only for a moment.

"What the hell? Hey!" he barked, heading toward the guy holding Kurt, protective outrage in his voice. "Get your hands off my kid!"

Cold, ice blue eyes narrowed on Kurt, and the man abruptly let go of Kurt's arm. Kurt barely had time to feel a moment's relief or confusion, however, before the man drew back the weapon in his hand and struck hard against Kurt's cheek.

White hot pain exploded across the side of Kurt's face, and he stumbled under the force of the blow, nearly collapsing to the ground. He would have, in fact, if not for the second pair of rough, grasping hands that caught him and yanked him back up, one arm wrapping tightly around his narrow shoulders and pulling him back against the second gunman's stomach.

Kurt flinched, his heart clenching in his chest at the sudden feeling of cold steel pressed painfully against his temple.

"One more step and he'll blow your boy away."

By this point it was obvious that the first man who'd forced his way inside was clearly the leader of this operation. Kurt was struck by the soft, cold sound of his surprisingly young voice – unsettlingly calm and controlled.

Burt instantly froze in his tracks with a sharp, audible intake of breath.

"You're being robbed, Mr. Hummel," the young man informed him softly. "And unless you also want to be grieving the loss of your only child… you'll get down on the floor on your knees, _right now_."

Burt's helpless, frustrated gaze passed between the man and his son for a moment, finally locking onto Kurt's terrified eyes, before sinking slowly to his knees on the floor, his hands upraised in a gesture of surrender.

Kurt stared at his father in almost childlike disbelief, the trusting child in him that still believed his father could do anything desperately willing him to do _something_ to stop this from happening; but the part of him that was closer to manhood – the part of him that had spent the last several months dealing with the painful reality that the good guys didn't always win, and sometimes good people really _were_ simply helpless to protect themselves and those they loved – that part of him realized with fatalistic certainty that there was really nothing Burt _could_ do.

Kurt looked away, unable to bear the stark fear he saw written all over his father's face. He had never seen that kind of a look on his dad's face before. He could clearly read the apprehension there, the dread of what could be, and it told him a terrible truth he'd rather have not known.

_Oh, God. This is it. They're not going to let us go, are they? They're going to kill us._

_We're both going to die tonight._


	2. Chapter 2

Burt Hummel's heart raced with fear, and a distant part of his mind vaguely registered that this drastic an elevation in blood pressure was probably not a good thing, not so soon after his heart attack – but the greater part of his thoughts was consumed with the terrifying reality of the situation in which he'd suddenly found himself.

"Don't… don't hurt him." He hated the tremor in his voice, struggling to keep his words level and calm as he sank obediently to his knees, but it was impossible to focus on his tone, or any possible means of escape, or anything besides the gun in the stocky man's hand – the gun that was pressed tight against Kurt's temple. "Please… don't…"

"Don't do anything stupid," the leader said, blue eyes regarding Burt calmly over the barrel of his gun, "and we won't."

He then put his gun away, and Burt found himself watching for any opportunity that might afford – but the shorter, heavier man's gun was still aimed at Kurt's head. Burt fought the urge to resist as the leader crouched behind him, taking a roll of duct tape from his pocket. He winced as the tape was wound too tightly around his crossed wrists, letting out an involuntary grunt of pain – and immediately regretting it when he saw how Kurt reacted to the almost inaudible sound.

"Dad!" Kurt cried out. "Stop it! You're hurting him!"

"I'm okay," Burt insisted quietly, trying to catch Kurt's gaze again, wanting to reassure his son before he let his emotions get him hurt. "Kurt – _I'm okay_."

Kurt glanced uncertainly between his father and the tall, blue-eyed man who was now striding purposefully toward him – his concern only slightly distracted by the threat quickly closing in on him – though Burt could focus on nothing else, his heart sinking as the distance between his son and their captor swiftly diminished.

_No… no, please don't hurt him… please don't…_

A soft, amused smile curved the man's lips upward as he reached to take Kurt's arm, pulling him away from his cohort's grasp and leading him a few steps toward the middle of the room, before letting go of him and taking a step backward. Kurt watched him, not sure what he intended, his wary gaze darting back and forth between the face of his captor and the face of his father.

Abruptly, the man struck out with the back of his fist, hitting Kurt hard in the face and causing the boy to stumble backward, falling hard onto his knees on the floor with a sharp little cry of pain that he swiftly, stubbornly bit back.

"Stop it!" Burt yelled in frustration. "Leave him alone, he's just a kid!"

His protest was completely ignored. Kurt struggled to steady himself, straightening up on his knees, his lips already parted to protest, shaking his head slightly in confused, fearful indignation at the unwarranted attack. Then, in one swift, fluid motion, the leader took his gun from his belt and pressed its muzzle firmly against Kurt's forehead.

Burt's stomach dropped, and Kurt froze, not even breathing for a long, taut moment. His eyes were wide with shock and panic, though he didn't dare look up at the man holding the gun. Burt watched as the boy's hands clenched and unclenched in helpless fists at his sides. Kurt closed his eyes, a convulsive swallow visible in his throat as the gunman pulled the hammer back with a sharp click that sounded incredibly loud in the sudden stillness that had fallen.

_Why? He didn't_ do _anything!_ Burt wondered frantically, too afraid to voice his thoughts aloud – too afraid that he might further anger their captors and make the situation worse. _No, don't hurt him, don't hurt him, please God, don't let them hurt my boy…_

Slowly, carefully, the man crouched on the floor at Kurt's side, never moving the weapon from its dangerous position. Kurt's harsh, shaky breaths were clearly audible, their pace increasing with fear at the man's increased nearness.

"I asked you if you were alone… didn't I, Kurt?" The man's voice was dangerously soft, patient and leading.

Kurt seemed frozen with panic, blinking rapidly, his lips trembling but seemingly unable to find words. He flinched as the man pressed the gun harder against his head, pushing it back slightly, his voice lowered and warning.

"_Didn't I_?"

"Yes," Kurt finally managed a hoarse whisper, nodding rapidly. "Y-yes…"

"And you were going to lie to me, weren't you?"

There was a note of cold amusement in the man's voice, and Burt's heart sank. He didn't know what the man was talking about, had no idea what had happened between his son and the robbers before he'd entered the room; but the look of sick terror on Kurt's face made the answer clear enough. Kurt had obviously tried to protect him, tried to keep the robbers from knowing that he was there – until he'd accidentally stumbled into the scene and interrupted Kurt's efforts.

"I… I wasn't…" Kurt stammered, his voice breathless and cracking slightly over the words. Burt knew his son well enough to read his reaction; Kurt was clearly too frightened to even think straight, let alone come up with a coherent answer. "I mean… I don't… don't know…"

"You were thinking about it," the man guessed, his tone soft and knowing. "Weren't you?" When Kurt remained silent, at a loss, he snapped, "_Answer me_!"

Kurt cringed, nodding hurriedly. "_Yes_," he admitted in a desperate whisper. "Y-yes…"

"Thought so."

The man reached up with his free hand to roughly snatch a handful of Kurt's hair, jerking his head back hard, and Kurt didn't quite manage to stifle the frightened whimper of pain that rose to his lips. His captor's voice was unsettlingly soft, patient as if he was teaching a difficult lesson to a particularly slow student.

"Let's just establish rule number one right now, shall we, kid? The one thing you need to remember to keep some _really, really_ bad things from happening here tonight. Okay? You listening?"

Kurt nodded hurriedly, helplessly, as best he could, his slight frame trembling visibly, even from across the room. Burt shook with frustration, his fists clenched behind his back, instinctively straining at his bonds, though he knew better than to actually break them – not until he knew he could actually do some good.

He wanted nothing more than to kick these sons of bitches' asses right out of his house, then go to his son and hold him and reassure him that he was safe and nothing could hurt him. He knew, however, that at this moment, with that gun still pressed against Kurt's head, any move he made would only serve to endanger his son's life.

"Good." The leader's voice was soothing, gentle. "Here's the thing: you _think about_ lying to me again?" His words were slow, measured, chillingly calm. "And I will blow your fucking brains out. And then, before you've even drawn your last breath…" He turned Kurt's head roughly by the grip he had on his hair, and Burt's breath failed him for a moment at the panicked look on his son's face as their eyes met. "… _then_… I'll blow _his_ brains out. Is that what you want, Kurt?"

Kurt shook his head, tears slipping from his eyes as his shoulders shook with silent sobs. "No," he whispered. "No, don't… _please_…"

"Good." The masked man soothed him, his grip on Kurt's hair easing to a gentle caress that Burt found even more upsetting. "Good boy. Now reach into your pocket and take out your cell phone."

Kurt obeyed immediately, holding it up in a trembling hand. The man took it and pocketed it, handing the roll of duct tape to his partner, who set about binding Kurt's hands behind his back, as the leader made his way over to Burt.

"Yours?"

Burt closed his eyes for a moment, frustrated with having to give up their last source of potential help, but aware that he had no choice. "In my shirt pocket," he ground out reluctantly, then added for good measure as the guy reached to look for it, "Look… you guys can have whatever you want, all right? Anything. Just… just don't hurt my kid, all right?"

His pleading words broke off when the man's hand suddenly stilled in his pocket, and Burt's heart sank with sudden realization. He felt sick as a vivid image filled his memory, of his cell phone – right where he'd left it on his desk in the shop.

"Well, apparently you don't care _too_ much what happens to him, do you?" the man smirked, but there was a hard edge of anger to his voice.

"_No_… I just forgot, I left it in my office, I swear!" Burt insisted, frustration in his voice as the man across the room took aim with his weapon at the back of Kurt's head. "You have to believe me, I wouldn't lie about this! Not with his _life_ on the line, _come on_!"

His protest was abruptly cut off by a blinding, brutal blow across his face with the gun in the leader's hand. As Burt struggled just to remain conscious, he was vaguely aware of the sound of a struggle across the room – Kurt's panicked, outraged voice, and a louder, angry voice yelling at him to shut up – muffled and distant, as if he was hearing it from under water.

_Kurt, don't… just do as they say…_

But the desperate words never left his own mind, as Burt collapsed onto his side, struggling against the dark haze crowding out his vision and coherent thought.

Kurt was trying his best to stay calm throughout this whole ordeal; and though he was, for the most part, failing miserably, he was at least managing to be cooperative and go along with the robbers' demands. Despite his instincts screaming at him to resist, he was consciously aware that trying to fight these guys was a _very bad idea_.

When he saw his dad go down, however, all his intentions vanished and he simply lost it.

"_Stop it_!" he screamed, struggling to rise from his knees with his hands bound behind his back. "Don't _touch_ him! He's sick! He's not lying to you, you _bastard_, get your hands off him!"

The man behind him yelled at him to shut up, grabbing his shoulder and easily forcing him back down onto his knees. Kurt struggled still, trying to shake off the man's grip, yelling at the one across the room to leave his dad alone. His stomach dropped with fear when he saw that his father was not getting up, just lying on his side on the floor, a low, weak groan of pain falling from his lips.

Nothing registered but blind fury as the leader strode purposefully across the room toward him. Kurt glared up at him in tearful defiance.

"You _bastard_!" he repeated. "Does it make you feel _powerful,_ beating up on a _heart patient_? He'd give you the phone if he _had_ it, you ignorant…"

His words were cut off abruptly as the man grabbed him by the hair with one hand and by the arm with the other, yanking him up to his feet and slamming him against the wall, hard enough to knock the breath from his body. Searing pain shot up Kurt's spine as his bound hands, clenched into angry, frustrated fists, were driven hard into his back. He gasped, struggling for air against the pain as the man shifted in alarmingly close to him, pressing the gun in his hand against Kurt's cheek.

Kurt felt dizzy, disoriented, knew that he would have collapsed to the floor if the larger, stronger man had not been holding him up on his feet. His head felt muddled, hazy, from the sharp blow to the back of his skull – and then suddenly, everything was terrifyingly, electrically clear, as his captor slipped the barrel of his gun past Kurt's parted lips, forcing his head back against the wall again when the weapon hit the roof of his mouth.

Kurt could barely register a sense of relief at the sound of his father's outraged cry from across the room – could barely hear it at all over the rushing of his own blood pounding in his ears – as the man smiled cruelly into his eyes, pushing the gun just a fraction further toward the back of Kurt's throat.

"Stop!" Burt cried out from across the room, desperation clear in his hoarse, ragged voice. "_Don't_…!"

"Mr. Hummel, unless you want me to just pull the trigger right now," Kurt's captor said softly without taking his eyes from Kurt's, "you'll remain still and silent until you're told otherwise. One sound, one move from you, and your boy will die."

Silence fell over the room, and Kurt wrestled with his own panic, trapped helplessly between the unyielding wall behind him, and the devastating threat of the weapon that pinned him to it. He closed his eyes, feeling suffocated, claustrophobic, his lips struggling to form frantic, pleading words that came out as nothing more than broken, pitiful choking sounds.

"Shhh," the man soothed him, running his free hand through Kurt's hair, his touch deceptively gentle.

Kurt did his best to obey, struggling to swallow around the cold, hard obstruction that made it difficult and painful – trying not to think about what that obstruction was, and how easily it could end his life. His captor smiled cruelly at his obvious panic, amusement in his cold blue eyes.

"You're a _stubborn_ little faggot, aren't you, Kurt Hummel?" he observed softly.

Kurt's stomach dropped at the all-too-familiar word, and the dangerous implications it held in the mouth of someone who had him so helpless, so utterly at his mercy. He shook his head slightly, pleadingly, closing his eyes against the tears that flowed freely down his face.

"You _are_, aren't you?" The humor had dropped from the man's voice for the moment, replaced by matter-of-fact interest, as if he was simply confirming his assumption. "A faggot? Don't try to lie to me, Kurt, remember what I told you…" He paused, repeating, "Are you?" He leaned in closer, sneering softly next to Kurt's ear with a smirk that Kurt felt against his skin, "Are you a little cock-sucker, Kurt?"

Kurt's face was hot with shame, his heart racing. He struggled to swallow, struggled just to _breathe_, feeling light-headed and dizzy from inadequate oxygen and sheer panic. He hesitated just a moment before nodding, more afraid of the definite consequences of an obvious lie than of the possible suffering that would follow his admission.

"Thought so." The man nodded, a satisfied smirk on his lips. "It's not like you hide it very well." He let out a soft, derisive laugh, and his partner laughed with him.

Kurt felt as if he was going to vomit, or pass out, or both – which might be a quicker, less agonizing death than whatever this man had planned for him.

"Problem is," the man continued, his tone falsely thoughtful, "you can't seem to keep that pretty, cock-sucking mouth under control. Can you? _Can you_?"

His last words were repeated in a soft, leading voice that left Kurt no question as to what was the required response. He shook his head slowly, obediently, his entire body trembling violently as the man's free hand came to rest, invasive and too intimate, at his side, toying with the hem of his shirt.

"So I think… maybe you need to learn a little bit of control. You think?"

Kurt shook his head pleadingly, not knowing what the man intended, only desperate to appease him and be freed from the terrifying, overwhelming threat of the weapon now jammed halfway down his throat.

"Yeah, I think that's a good idea," the man insisted, edging in closer to him. "So why don't you just be nice and sweet and cooperative…" he ordered softly in a hushed, suggestive tone that sent shivers of dread down Kurt's spine, "… and show me just what that pretty little mouth of yours can do?"


	3. Chapter 3

"Come on, Kurt," the man with the gun sneered softly, his breath against Kurt's ear making his skin crawl. "Why don't you show me what a good little cocksucker you are?"

Kurt shook his head, eyes wide with panic. He didn't know exactly what his captor intended, but the suggestive tone of his voice, the wicked gleam in his eyes, told Kurt that whatever it was, he was not going to like it. He was acutely aware of the gun in his mouth, pressing against the back of his throat so hard that he could barely draw breath past it.

"Aww, come on," the man coaxed him teasingly, as if actually disappointed by his wordless refusal. "It's not like I'm asking you to suck my _dick _or anything. Just… demonstrate how you _would_… if I _let_ you… on my gun. That's not too much to ask, is it? I just wanna see what you've got, pretty boy. You've gotta be pretty good at it, right? Such a pretty mouth you've got… it's just _made _for sucking cock…"

Kurt's face flushed with shame at the stream of degrading filth that fell from his captor's lips, and he shook his head again, his eyes instinctively turned away from the place across the room where his father knelt on the floor, helplessly hearing every word. Abruptly, the gun was pressed harder into his mouth, and Kurt flinched uncontrollably as the hammer was pulled back, the gunman's eyes narrowed in sudden anger, his words cold, frighteningly measured and calm.

"Okay, I'm asking nicely, and you're being a little bitch about it. So how about _this_, Kurt Hummel. How about… you suck my fucking gun right the _fuck_ now… and I don't blow your brains out the back of your head? How's _that_ work for you?"

Blind, suffocating panic took over as Kurt realized just how likely the man's threat was, with the weapon filling his mouth, choking him, poised to take his life at any moment. He shook his head, his entire body trembling, tears slipping down his face as his wide eyes locked pleadingly onto the gaze of his tormentor.

_Please, please don't… God,_ no… _please…_

"Shhh, easy now…" the man murmured, suddenly gentle, running a hand soothingly through Kurt's hair – and Kurt hadn't even realized until that moment that he'd been struggling uselessly to voice the pleas that filled his mind. Apparently, his captor found it immensely amusing, judging from the cool smirk on his lips, and the laughter dancing in his eyes as he reasoned, "Come on, it's not that bad, is it? It's not as if you've never done this before…"

Kurt closed his eyes, struggling to swallow against the cruel obstruction in his throat, his face burning with humiliation.

"Shit," the man whispered in genuine shock, and Kurt fearfully opened his eyes, unsure what he was reacting to. The man was staring at him with dawning realization, his smile widening slowly as he repeated, "You've never done this before. Have you?"

Kurt wanted to scream with frustration and outrage, wanted to inform the guy in scathing, sarcastic terms that even if he was quite experienced in _actual_ oral sex with actual _people _– this was _nothing_ like that. This was a brutally sadistic parody that might yet end in his own death; how could any _countless_ number of blow jobs ever prepare _anyone_ for _this_?

But Kurt didn't dare show his anger and resentment openly, well aware that he was far from holding the upper hand in this situation. Hoping that it might somehow earn him some level of mercy, Kurt shook his head to silently confess that it was true – and then flinched when the man let out a harsh laugh of pleased surprise.

"Should have guessed," he snorted. "It's not like you look over twelve. Oh, well." He glanced over his shoulder, a cruelly taunting tone to his voice as he raised his voice slightly to address Burt. "Guess that's _good _news, right, dad? Your boy might be a fag, but at least he's not a slut." He looked back at Kurt, his smile fading slightly, his eyes narrowing with malicious anticipation. "_Yet_."

Kurt couldn't bring himself to look at his father, closing his eyes as Burt's hoarse, ragged voice broke the silence, pleading and submissive, clearly not wanting to give their robbers the idea that he was challenging or defying them in any way – not with Kurt's life hanging in the balance.

"Please," he begged in a broken, defeated voice. "Don't do this. _Please_. For God's sake, he's just a _child_…"

The man ignored Burt completely, focusing his unwanted attention completely on Kurt.

"Well," he mused, tilting the gun in Kurt's mouth upward and pulling it backward, so that Kurt was forced to move away from the wall, "considering the fact that you've never given anybody head before…" He backed up a few steps, leading Kurt with him by the gun in his mouth. "… I guess you could use the practice. Couldn't you, kid?"

Kurt felt overwhelmingly vulnerable and exposed as he was helplessly led to the center of the room, the gun in his mouth forcing him to move wherever he was dragged by the man who held it. With his hands bound tightly behind his back, it was difficult to maintain his balance, and he stumbled when the man stopped walking, gagging as the gun hit the back of his throat again. He was immediately distracted from the unpleasant sensation, however, by the soft words of his captor, sending a shiver of dread trickling down his spine.

"Get on your knees, Kurt."

He hesitated just a moment before attempting to obey, but was prevented by the upward pressure of the gun in his mouth. The man moved closer to him, and Kurt braced himself for another blow – but instead, the man simply took his arm in a grip that was firm, and yet strangely gentle. He moved the gun as he maneuvered Kurt, guiding him carefully down onto the floor on his knees, while never removing the weapon from between his trembling lips.

"Relax," he advised softly, his free hand rising to cup the back of Kurt's head, slowly massaging through his hair. "It's not that big a deal, really. I'll even tell you what to do, okay? Give you the practice you need for the real thing, later on."

The strangely patient, gentle tone of his voice set a chill deep in Kurt's stomach, and the light, soothing touch of the man's hand made him feel sick. His chest felt as if it was slowly constricting with his panic, and he wanted nothing more than to fight, to shake off the man's hands from his body and pull away from the intrusive presence of the gun – but he knew better. He knew that it would only take his captor moments to subdue him, and then… _then_…

No, he couldn't dare to fight. There was nothing to do, no means to get out of this, except… to go _through_ it.

_Just do what he says,_ Kurt told himself, and the voice of his thoughts sounded strangely like his father's voice. _Just do whatever he tells you to do, and you'll get through this. Just don't do anything stupid to piss him off…_

"Close your mouth, kid," the guy commanded with a little laugh, shaking his head. "You're not gonna get anywhere like that. Close your mouth around it, and suck."

Kurt struggled to obey, though the sharp metal dug into the roof of his mouth, and he couldn't seem to control his shaking enough to fully close his mouth around the weapon. Finally, though, he managed to come close, swallowing hard and weakly sucking on the dirty metal surface of the gun.

"Harder, baby," the man urged him, his voice low and hushed, his hand massaging harder against Kurt's scalp, his lips inches from Kurt's ear. "Come on… that's it… good… good job…"

Kurt shuddered at the words, but did his best to obey, sucking harder, his stomach rebelling at the taste of iron and some kind of oil, whatever was used to clean the gun. He closed his eyes, trying to shut it all out and pretend that he was somewhere else, _anywhere_ else, far from this place and this vile, disgusting degradation that was being inflicted upon him.

"Hey, dad," the man sneered, and Kurt opened his eyes in alarm, suddenly feeling as if he wanted to vomit as he was reminded that his _father_ was _watching _this. "You might wanna take notes or something. This is educational. This is what he's gonna be doing for _fun_, first chance he gets, so you might as well be informed, right?"

Kurt cringed with shame at the cruel words, unwilling to open his eyes and see the reaction on his father's face. Burt was dealing well so far with the fact that Kurt was gay, but he'd made it clear that there were certain things he wasn't comfortable discussing yet – things like boys, and Kurt _dating_ boys, or _kissing_ boys.

It hadn't ever come up, but Kurt was pretty sure the specific details of what Kurt might look like while performing oral sex was probably also on the "never want to know" list.

Kurt's father didn't say anything, but Kurt could hear his hoarse, ragged breathing, knew how difficult it had to be for him to simply sit there and watch this, without being able to do anything to help his son. He couldn't do this, couldn't keep up this obscene display, in full view of his father, tormenting him with his own helplessness.

"Unh-uh, I didn't say you could stop, baby," the man warned him softly, pressing the gun down his throat a little farther. Kurt choked on it, struggling for breath, tears springing to his eyes, but the man didn't ease up, pressing harder as he added, "You just keep going until I tell you to quit, all right? Keep sucking it like a good little whore…"

Kurt nodded desperately, wanting nothing more than to _breathe _at that moment – and the man relented, drawing back the gun just enough to allow it. Kurt drew in several harsh, shaky breaths before forcing himself to continue, terrified of the consequences should he not react fast enough for the man's liking.

Tears of shame filled his eyes, spilling down his face, as the man brought his free hand down to rest at Kurt's side, his thumb sliding under the hem of Kurt's shirt. His skin was warm and callused against Kurt's stomach, and made it turn with sick fear and violation. He wanted to pull away, but he didn't dare.

"That's good, baby," the man encouraged him softly, his invasive fingers sliding down to toy at the low waist of Kurt's jeans. "That's really good… yeah… just like that… that's perfect… you're a natural little cocksucker, Kurt… so good at this…"

To Kurt's utter horror, the man's voice became breathless and shaky, as if he was actually deriving some kind of twisted sexual pleasure from what Kurt was doing. Kurt opened his eyes, staring at the man in shock and terror, and the man smirked at him, intensifying his dramatic effects, his voice rising in speed and pitch as he began to rock the gun slightly back and forth in Kurt's mouth, his finger tightening dangerously on the trigger.

"Yeah… yeah, so good… that's it… harder, baby…"

Kurt's stomach clenched as the man edged in closer to him, up on his own knees, his hand rising to clutch at the back of Kurt's head again, holding him firmly in place.

"… yeah… oooh… I think… almost there… almost there, baby…"

Kurt's entire body was shaking violently with the sudden certainty of where this was heading. He couldn't take his eyes off the twitching finger locked around the trigger of the weapon, as his tormentor's voice rose, edging toward a feigned climax – and suddenly, Kurt was absolutely, dreadfully certain of what would happen when he reached it.

_No… no, please, no…_

"H-here it comes… I-I'm gonna… I think I'm gonna…"

The man let out an obscene cry of pleasure, and Kurt flinched violently as the sound of a bullet muffled by a silencer filled the space around him – only realizing several moments later that he hadn't been shot, that the sound had come from _beside_ him and not inside his own head – that in the moment before he'd pulled the trigger, the man had abruptly jerked the gun out of his mouth and aimed it at the wall behind him.

Mingled relief and delayed terror overwhelmed him, and suddenly Kurt found it more difficult to breathe than it had been when the gun was in his mouth. His chest ached, his entire body shook so hard that it hurt, and deep, wracking sobs tore from his abused throat, hoarse and broken, as tears streamed from his eyes.

His captor seemed to find his utter collapse hilarious, laughing cruelly. "That was awesome," he crowed, turning toward his partner. "He actually thought he was dead for a second there, didn't he?"

Kurt vaguely registered through his own panicked breakdown that there was no response to the man's exultant words – but he didn't even have time to regain his composure before the man was crouched down beside him again. One strong hand painfully gripped his arm, shaking him slightly, as the gun was pressed hard under his chin, forcing his head back and forcing him to meet the cool, controlled smile on his captor's face.

"You're going to listen to me from now on, aren't you, Kurt?" He spoke softly in a leading tone, and Kurt gave a frantic, shaky little nod, gasping in a soft, shuddering breath. "Gonna do as you're told?" He nodded again, letting out a soft, broken sob, his eyes closed and his head bowed as the man moved the gun away. "Good…" That gently invasive hand played through Kurt's hair again in a mockery of affection. "That's a good boy…"

Kurt flinched when he felt the man's fingers firmly grasp his chin, tilting his head up again. With dread, he looked up into the man's face, unsettled by the strange gentleness of the touch, and the softness in his voice as he smiled down at him.

"Who knows?" he speculated in a quiet, thoughtful tone, a cruel gleam in his eyes. "Before we're done here, I might just have to let you practice on the real thing after all."

Something cold and sick settled in the pit of Kurt's stomach, and his mind tried to shut out the meaning of those words, tried to deny the clear threat in them – but it was unmistakable. He stumbled on leaden legs as the man took his arms and pulled him to his feet, then led him across the room to where Burt was still kneeling, his head bowed and turned away, his shoulders shaking slightly with silent tears.

Kurt couldn't look at him, his face flaming with humiliation and guilt as he was shoved onto his knees beside his father.

"Now you two be quiet and good while I check out this nice place you've got here," the man advised with a smirk, turning to his partner to order calmly, "Either of them tries anything… shoot the other one."

Kurt felt a slight sense of relief as the man who'd so viciously tortured him left the room, but it was far outweighed by the sickening feeling of utter violation that overwhelmed him. He couldn't look at his father, couldn't say a word, even when Burt quietly, urgently spoke his name, and edged nearer to him on his knees.

"_Kurt_," he repeated, softly insistent. "Son, _look_ at me."

Kurt forced himself to raise his stricken gaze to meet his father's eyes, his vision obscured by the tears still flowing freely. Burt leaned in close, his gaze intent and almost stern, his voice low and somehow gentle and severe at the same time.

"Kurt, you listen to me. Are you hearing me?"

Kurt nodded, biting down on his lower lip, struggling to stifle the choked sobs that rose in his throat, forcing himself to focus on his father's words.

"Kurt, you didn't do anything wrong. Okay? You _didn't_. All you did just now was what you _had_ to… to _survive_. All right? That's all either of us can do right now – _whatever we have to_. And…" Burt struggled over the next words, his voice choked and breaking, but Kurt still knew he meant them completely. "… and I am so _proud_ of you, son… for keeping your head together enough to do that. To do what you had to, to get through this. All right? I need you to know that."

Kurt stared at him in disbelief – but something within him broke with the words, a certain tight, dreadful feeling in his chest that was released with the knowledge that his father could actually look at him without revulsion, talk to him without disgust, after what he'd just witnessed. Kurt broke down again, leaning forward to rest his head against his father's shoulder, crying softly with relief.

"I wish I could put my arms around you right now, son…" Burt's voice was thick with emotion, as he rested his head against Kurt's in the only display of physical affection that was left to him in his bound state. "I would if I could… but since I can't, I just need you to know that I'm _so proud_ of you, Kurt… and I _love_ you… and we're gonna be all right, okay? We've just gotta keep on keeping our heads, and… and everything will be all right."

Kurt just pressed himself as close to his father as he could, trying to take comfort from the same warm, solid strength that had been his support and shelter all his life, and wishing desperately that he could find the will to believe his father's words.

He thought it might have been easier if Burt had sounded as if he believed them himself.


	4. Chapter 4

Burt strained uselessly against the tape that bound his arms behind his back, everything within him crying out with the _need_ just to get his arms around his son and hold him. He could feel Kurt's slender frame trembling as he pressed against his father's side, his face buried against Burt's shoulder. The slight weight only served to remind Burt of how terribly fragile and vulnerable his son really was, in comparison with the sheer sadistic brutality they were facing.

"It's going to be all right," he whispered, turning his tear-dampened face to press a kiss against Kurt's temple, offering the only physical comfort that he could at the moment. "Kurt, we're going to be okay… we've gotta just keep it together, kiddo, all right?"

Kurt nodded without a word, but the shallow, shuddering little gasp that accompanied the gesture betrayed his panic. His shoulders were shaking with silent sobs, and Burt could feel the moisture of Kurt's tears soaking through the soft cotton of his shirt.

His jaw clenched with frustrated rage at the monster that had reduced his brave, defiant son to this, and he glared across the room toward the hallway down which the man had disappeared. His partner, who seemed to be quite a bit less dangerous than the one who was clearly running the show, was nevertheless still holding a gun, and leaning up against the wall across the room, watching them closely and glancing occasionally, impatiently, down the hall.

"We just have to keep our heads, and do what they say…"

"Dad…" Kurt whimpered, his voice a stricken whisper, muffled against Burt's shoulder as he pressed in closer, clearly as desperate as Burt was for the embrace that was currently denied them. "I'm so scared. H-he said… he said he m-might…"

Burt suppressed a shudder. Kurt couldn't bring himself to finish the statement – but he didn't have to. The quiet, chilling threat their captor had made still echoed in his mind, gently vicious words accompanied by a deceptively soft touch. The memory of it filled Burt's thoughts, making him feel sick with revulsion and protective rage.

_Maybe I'll have to let you practice on the real thing…_

"That's not going to happen, Kurt," Burt insisted firmly, his voice hoarse and emphatic, hoping desperately that he was telling the truth. "We're going to be all right. We just have to stay calm, and I promise you, son, we'll get through this…"

Kurt nodded automatically against his father's shoulder, and Burt closed his eyes, taking some limited comfort from the gesture, though his son was still trembling violently, his breath still rapid and uneven with his terror.

"And… we _have_ to get through it," he continued, lowering his voice so that only Kurt could hear him, a hard edge creeping into his voice, trembling slightly with quiet rage, "because once we do… we're going to make these bastards pay for this."

Burt felt Kurt's body go suddenly still against him, his quiet, shallow breaths the only sound to break the silence. Slowly Kurt raised his head again, studying his father's face, his eyes huge and solemn in his pale, tear-streaked face. Burt noted with relief that he seemed a little calmer now.

"Nobody pushes the Hummels around – right?" he reminded Kurt softly, nodding slightly.

Kurt slowly shook his head, letting out a shaky breath and swallowing hard. "No," he whispered. "N-nobody."

The panic was still there, unmistakable in Kurt's eyes – but beneath it, Burt could see something else stirring – a faint flicker of courage and defiance – that familiar, unshakable confidence that had always gotten Kurt through the hardships they'd faced in the past – that had gotten him through the recent ordeal with another, considerably less frightening tormentor than the one they were facing now.

"We'll get through this," Kurt whispered, and though his voice was trembling, there was a note of defiant pride in it as he continued. "And then… we'll make them wish they'd picked some other home to invade – because picking ours was the biggest mistake of their lives."

_That's it… there's my boy…_

Burt nodded slowly, his encouraging smile not entirely forced. "That's right. We're gonna be just fine, Kurt. Just a little bit longer…"

His words broke off abruptly, at the sound of footsteps, and Burt's heart ached at the sight of Kurt's flinch when he heard them as well. Burt looked over his son's shoulder to see the masked man appear in the doorway next to his partner, his arms laden with as much of the Hummels' valuables as he could carry. He grinned at the other man, speaking in a voice that was low, but not so quiet as to hide his words from their captives.

"There's some nice electronics in both bedrooms, and in here. I found these banks in the bedrooms, and some cash in the dresser…"

Burt watched with helpless outrage as the man handed over the matching gallon banks, the kind that counted the change for you as you put it in, that he had bought years ago for himself and for Kurt.

Every day when Burt came in from work, he emptied his pockets of whatever loose change he'd accumulated during the day, and felt a sense of satisfaction in watching the number on the top of the bank steadily grow. Kurt used his to save up money for the expensive clothes that he liked, and Burt knew that he often opened the bank up and stuffed bills inside, too impatient to wait for the change to become enough.

And now, some stranger with a gun was headed outside with the money that had taken them months to save.

"When you come back, there's some jewelry in the bottom dresser drawer in the master bedroom. Not sure if it's worth much, but might as well take that, too," the leader suggested to his cohort.

Kurt let out a muffled little sound of protest, biting it back at Burt's sharp, warning look; but Burt couldn't help but feel the same outrage at the thought of his late wife's prized jewelry being hocked by these lowlifes at some seedy pawn shop for a few bucks. It meant so much more than that to him and to Kurt, and yet once it left this house, Burt knew that there was little chance that they'd ever see it again.

Still, for all their value, the precious mementos of his late wife weren't worth their lives – so Burt kept quiet.

"Get started on all of that," the one who was clearly the leader directed his partner, "while I figure out what else we might have, here."

Burt tensed, his body instinctively preparing for a fight that he couldn't follow through with, when he saw the man stride purposefully toward them, his gun in his right hand. Kurt turned toward him at the sound of his footsteps, eyes widening with fear, letting out a startled yelp as the man grabbed his arm and yanked him effortlessly to his feet.

"Get _off_ me!" Kurt demanded, his voice high and shrill with alarm. "Let _go_…!"

"_Kurt_!"

Burt wasn't even sure himself, as his son's name left his lips, whether or not he was protesting Kurt's being taken away from him, or warning his son to silence – or maybe a bit of both. His hands clenched into helpless fists, his muscles twitching in instinctive response, desperate to fight to protect his child. He froze, however, his stomach lurching with dread, when the man held his gun in Kurt's face, shaking him slightly.

"Shhh," he ordered in a hushed, soothing whisper, a cold, soft smile on his face, his eyes narrowed speculatively as he took in Kurt's reaction.

Kurt was staring at the gun held inches from his head, his lips parted and trembling, his breath rapid and shallow as he visibly struggled for control of his own fear. He didn't say anything else, and he didn't resist any further – but after a moment, he closed his mouth with an effort, swallowing hard as he deliberately raised his eyes to meet the gaze of his captor. Burt felt an overpowering sensation of fierce pride in his son, when he saw the spark of quiet defiance in his all-too-expressive eyes – and then a sick feeling of fear, when he saw their captor see it, as well.

He raised a single eyebrow, a slight smirk of surprised amusement on his lips as he let one hand slide slowly down Kurt's arm. Kurt flinched, drawing in a shaky, frightened breath as the man's hand crept from its place low on his arm, to his hip, and the man's smirk widened into a nasty smile as Kurt's gaze faltered, drifting back toward the gun in his hand. His voice was deceptively soft, sending a shiver of apprehension down Burt's spine, as he remarked casually,

"Well… looks like I'm not quite done with you yet, am I, Kurt Hummel?"

"You're taking everything we've got," Burt spoke up, struggling to keep the tremor from his voice, to keep it level and calm, as he tried to distract the man's attention from his terrified son. "What else do you want from us?"

"That's a good question, Mr. Hummel." Burt's uneasiness intensified when the man didn't take his eyes off Kurt, smiling slyly as he replied. "A very interesting question… and I'm not quite sure I know the answer just yet."

Kurt bit back a soft, broken cry, closing his eyes and shuddering as the man slid his hand around, gentle and invasive, to rest beneath the boy's bound, white-knuckled fists. He pressed his palm flat against the taut denim that covered Kurt's buttocks, stroking slightly as he pulled Kurt in closer to him with his other hand, visibly relishing the panicked, strangled whimper that the boy struggled to keep back.

Still without averting his unsettlingly intent gaze from Kurt, the man abruptly shifted the topic of conversation, addressing Burt with a quiet, calm question.

"Do you have any other jewelry or cash in the house, besides what you heard me tell my friend?" He didn't wait for a response before adding a soft warning. "I'll find it if it's there, and if you lie to me… I'll make you watch while I make your boy _beg_ me to kill him."

The casual, matter-of-fact tone of the man's voice made it chillingly clear how easy it would be for him to carry out his brutal threats. Burt had no doubt that he could and would do as he said, and take great pleasure in doing it. His mouth was dry, his heart pounding in his throat, as he quickly and truthfully replied.

"You've found all the jewelry in the house. It was my wife's. We don't own any, besides hers. There's some cash hidden in a cut-out spot in the boxspring of the bed in the master bedroom."

"Very good." The man was clearly pleased with Burt's obedience, offering him a bright smile, raising his hand to rest at Kurt's side instead. "One more thing: where's your safe?"

Burt's stomach dropped at the question, because he knew that the man wasn't going to like the answer.

"Mister, I don't know where you got your information," he replied, his voice slow and cautious, pleading, "but I don't _have_ a safe. We don't have that kind of money. I don't know why you even _chose_ us. We're not a rich family. We've only got just a little bit saved up, and that's all we've got…"

The man's smile faded instantly, his expression cold and calculating as he used his grip on Kurt's arm to turn him around so that his back was to his captor, then wrapped the arm that held the gun around his shoulders tightly, holding Kurt back against his chest – leaving his other hand free to roam over the front of the boy's body, and Burt forced to watch his son's humiliated, terrified face as it happened.

"Somehow, Mr. Hummel…" The man lowered his hand to viciously grope the front of Kurt's pants, and Kurt struggled uselessly against his firm grip, letting out a desperate little sob of protest, and turning his flushed face away from his father in shame. "… I find that _very_ difficult to believe."

"I'm telling you the truth!" Burt insisted, his voice trembling with frustration, on the verge of tears. "Please, _stop it_! Leave him alone, I'm not lying to you, _please_…"

"One more chance, Mr. Hummel," the man insisted softly, ignoring Burt's pleas, as his hand moved to unfasten the button of Kurt's jeans, then edged the zipper down an inch or two. Kurt shook his head pleadingly, his shoulders shaking with silent sobs, but his captor was unmoved as he asked Burt in a slow, measured voice, "Where do you keep the rest of your money?"

"In the fucking _bank_, like everyone else!" Burt snapped, hot tears of helpless frustration stinging his eyes. "I don't have a _safe_, I'm telling you, we don't have very much at all! You've got almost all of it, and what little more we've got is in my savings account! Please, just stop! Just… leave him alone! You're doing this all for _nothing_!"

The man laughed, maneuvering the gun in his hand so that he could press it against Kurt's cheek, pushing his head back onto his shoulder. He leaned in close, his free hand cupping the front of Kurt's jeans and squeezing slowly, smirking when the boy let out a pitiful little cry of pain and pleading, tears flowing freely from his eyes.

"Nothing? Oh, I wouldn't say _that_," he sneered softly.

Then, abruptly, he let go of Kurt, pushing him forward onto his knees on the floor. Kurt's quiet, breathless sobs tore at Burt's heart, and he wished that his son was within his reach, wished that he was free to comfort him and protect him like he wanted to. But a moment later, the gunman was at his side, instead, reaching down to grasp his arm and haul him up to his feet.

"Well," he stated with a cheerful smile that was chilling in its cold mirth. "Looks like we need to make a little trip to the bank, then, don't we?"


	5. Chapter 5

Kurt was shaking violently in the aftermath of the viciously gentle assault he'd just endured. He could still feel the ghost of the man's touch on his skin, invasive fingers sliding under his clothes, toying at the edges of them, tormenting him with the knowledge that he could easily go farther – could go as far as he liked, in fact – if he chose to do so.

After the man finally let him go, Kurt heard him speaking to his father, but couldn't begin to process the words past his own overwhelming sense of panic and violation. His blood was roaring in his ears, his heart racing so hard that he could feel it beating against his ribcage. He felt as if he couldn't breathe, couldn't think, couldn't stop shaking so hard that it _hurt_…

And then, abruptly, his focus was drawn in again when the intruder grabbed his father and hauled him to his feet. A cold knot of dread began to form in the pit of Kurt's stomach as Burt was led away from him, across the room, toward the man's waiting partner. Panicked questions filled his thoughts, screaming in his mind, though he couldn't seem to draw breath to speak.

_No. _No!_ What are you doing? Where are you taking him? No, please, please don't hurt him, don't hurt my dad, please_…

"We're going to make a little trip to the bank," the robber informed his partner with a smirk. "Mr. Hummel is going to be so considerate as to empty out all of his accounts for us, so that we can leave here with a little something more than his crap electronics and his kid's piggy bank… in exchange for our consideration in leaving him and his kid alive when we go."

Kurt's heart lurched at the thought of this sadistic monster taking his dad away, anywhere, for any reason. He had a terrible sinking feeling, cold and sick and roiling in the pit of his stomach, that if this man took his father out of his sight, he would _not_ be bringing him back.

"Okay," Burt agreed readily, his voice trembling slightly as he glanced across the room at his son. "Okay. Anything you want. Just… just leave him out of this, okay? Just… don't hurt him, and… I'll give you everything I've got. Let's go, okay? Let's get this over with…"

Kurt felt a pang of aching affection and gratitude for his father, as he realized abruptly how eager his father was to get the man away from him. Burt recognized the same thing that Kurt did – that the leader was the more dangerous of the two men, and that whoever was left with the other man was likely to be in the safer position.

And without question, Burt wanted that person to be Kurt.

The man nodded slowly, a cool smile on his lips as he glanced between Burt and Kurt, still kneeling on the floor across the room. Slowly, his smile widened, his eyes narrowing with understanding, as he began to put the pieces together as well.

"Change of plans," he announced brightly, reaching out to place a hand on his partner's shoulder. "_You_ take Mr. Hummel to the bank… while I hang out here with Kurt and make sure he doesn't get into any trouble. How does that sound?"

"Wait. Why aren't you going?"

Burt's voice trembled with apprehension, his eyes filled with fear as they locked onto Kurt's for a long moment, and Kurt felt something within him – some fragile piece of strength that had been clinging to the strength of his father's courage – shatter apart at the sight of the sheer, helpless terror on his father's face.

_Oh, God. Why does he want to stay here with me? What is he going to_ do _to me?_

The man let out a soft, hushed little laugh, shaking his head in amusement and moving in closer to Burt. His voice lowered to a low, menacing tone as he replied softly, "I don't think you're in any position to be questioning my decisions at the moment – are you, Mr. Hummel?"

"I just… I just want to know…" A swallow was visible in Burt's throat, even from across the room, and to his credit, he didn't drop eye contact with his captor as he pressed cautiously, "… what's going to happen to my son… if you stay, and I go with your buddy here… I just… I just wanna know… before I do _anything_ for you… that he's gonna be okay when we get back."

The man nodded slowly, as if in acceptance of Burt's reasoning, and then leaned in close to speak in a whisper next to Burt's ear. Kurt strained forward on his knees, not daring to get up, but desperately wishing that he could hear what the man was saying.

_What? Oh, God, Dad… what_ is _going to happen to me when you go?_

_What's going to happen to _us_?_

Burt struggled to control the rising sense of panic he felt at the sudden change in plans, his mind racing with dozens of horrible possibilities for why the man might have changed his mind and decided to stay here with Kurt.

_He probably just thought of the same thing I did,_ Burt told himself desperately. _That Kurt stands a better chance of getting away from his buddy here than from him, and that I'm less likely to try something on the way to the bank and back if I know he's got my son waiting here, and could… do _anything_ to him… God…_

_Kurt's just a kid. He wouldn't… wouldn't…_

_No, he's just playing it safe to make sure we don't get away. That's all it is. _

_It_ has _to be._

"Just… tell me that nothing's going to happen to my son while I'm gone," he insisted, studying what little he could see of the man's face for any sign of dishonesty.

All he saw was a cold, vicious smile before the man leaned in close, his strong grip on Burt's arm keeping him from pulling away as he spoke in a maliciously soft voice right next to his ear.

"I'll tell you what _will_ happen to your son… if you try anything on the way to the bank and back." His words were slow and measured, the unmistakable certainty in them sending a shiver down Burt's spine. "My partner is going to take you to the bank in your car, and he's going to keep you blindfolded until you've left the driveway, so you won't get a look at what kind of vehicle I'm driving. I'll wait thirty minutes for you to get back here with all the money from your accounts, and then, if you're not back yet… I'll be forced to assume that you've done something terribly stupid, Mr. Hummel. And if I'm forced to assume that… then I'm going to take your little boy over there… and throw him in the back of my van with all the rest of the valuables you don't care about enough to behave yourself… and I'm going to take him somewhere far away, somewhere where you'll never find him."

Burt felt as if he couldn't breathe, his stomach lurching at the feel of the man's lips turning upward in a smirk against his cheek. He closed his eyes in a vain attempt to shut out the horrific images conjured up by his captor's words, but found that that only made the nightmare scenario more vivid. He shook his head slowly in denial of the man's threats, his jaw clenched with helpless rage at the very thought of what the man was suggesting.

"They won't even know how to look for me. You don't know what I look like, what exactly I'm driving… anything. So once I'm absolutely sure that no one is following us – and no one will be – I'll take your baby boy home with me…"

The man's voice lowered even further, taking on a lewd note of anticipation that made Burt want to kill him – not to punch him or beat the crap out of him but to _fucking tear him apart_ – but he knew that would only succeed in placing Kurt in greater danger than he was already in. He had no choice but to simply stand there shaking, his arms bound, forced to listen helplessly as his captor whispered in his ear.

"I'll tie him down in my basement. I've got a special room there, you know. He wouldn't be the first gorgeous little plaything I've used up down there. And he _is_ gorgeous, Mr. Hummel. He's _stunning_. So, yeah… I'll take my time with him. I'll draw it out as long as I can… make him scream… make him cry… make him sob for his daddy to save him… except, you won't be able to. There won't be _anyone _to save him." The man's voice hardened, becoming sharp and warning, though still inaudible to anyone but Burt, as he went on, "And when I'm done, and he's so traumatized and broken that he's catatonic and therefore _boring_… I'll take him out where I hid the others… and bury his body." A low, evil laugh fell from the man's lips before he concluded in a whisper, "If he's lucky, he'll already be dead when I do."

Burt wanted to scream, wanted to vomit, wanted to break free from the bonds that held him and rip this animal apart – but he didn't dare make a move, didn't dare take a chance on his son's life – not while their enemies held all the power. It was too great a risk to take. He was shaking violently with the effort to hold back his protective instincts, shaking his head, his lips forming emphatic words that he couldn't find the breath to utter.

_No, no, no…_

The man drew back, his ice blue eyes dancing with amusement as he sneered in a tone that was loud enough for the others to hear again, "So we understand each other, then, Mr. Hummel? You're going to cooperate?"

Burt nodded wordlessly, feeling sick, knowing that he had no other choice but to comply. He couldn't take a chance on leaving his son at the mercy of this monster – not for any longer than was absolutely necessary.

"Good." The man nodded in satisfaction, clapping a hand against Burt's shoulder in a mockery of friendliness. "That's what I like to hear."

Burt's heart lurched with fear as the man abruptly turned on his heel and crossed the room to Kurt, dragging the boy to his feet and wrapping a casual arm around his narrow, trembling shoulders. Kurt flinched as the man's fingertips stroked idly up and down his arm, visibly tensed and shaking, but not daring to pull away.

"Be sure to hurry back," the man instructed, his tone deceptively light and teasing, giving Burt a sly wink. "Who knows what I might get up to if I get bored?"

Kurt tried desperately to control his panic at the suggestive touch of the man holding him, not wanting to make this any harder for his father than it obviously already was. He knew that Burt didn't want to leave him, but also knew as well as his father did that they simply had no choice but to go along with whatever their captors demanded of them.

As the other robber wrapped a rolled up towel around his dad's head and led him out to the car, the leader grabbed Kurt's arm and dragged him in close, one hand fisting viciously in his hair as he snarled next to his ear, "If you try _anything_ while they're gone… I'll call my partner and have him shoot your father in the head. Do you understand, Kurt?"

Kurt nodded hurriedly, unable to stop the tears that spilled from his eyes at those words – then immediately shook his head, pleading in a hoarse, broken voice, "Don't. Please, I'll do what you want. Please, d-don't hurt him…"

"Shut up," the man snapped, releasing him with a rough shove back down onto his knees and walking away from him.

Kurt tried to shut out the terrified imaginings that filled his mind, of all the various possibilities that could result from this turn of events. What if his dad tried to get away, to get help – and the other robber shot him? What if he couldn't get back on time, and the man staying at the house with Kurt decided they'd waited long enough, and shot _him_?

A little shudder of apprehension trickled down Kurt's spine with the memory of the last words the leader had spoken to his father.

_What if he… what if he gets bored? _

But much to Kurt's relief, after his father left with the other robber, his captor more or less left him alone. He stayed within sight the whole time, to be sure that Kurt didn't try to escape – but he didn't touch him or speak to him again. Still, every time the man moved, even if it was just to shift in his place or glance at his watch, Kurt's stomach turned with fear, his mind forming all kinds of awful ideas as to what the man might find to pass the time.

Fifteen minutes had passed when the doorbell rang.

Kurt's eyes darted up in surprise toward the door, then toward his captor, who was swiftly striding toward him, a warning look on his face, his gun in his hand. Just as he reached Kurt's side, grabbing him and jerking him to his feet before clamping a tight, painful hand over his mouth – Kurt remembered, and his heart sank with fear.

_Mercedes… she was coming over to hang out tonight… oh, God… please no, please don't let him hurt her…_


	6. Chapter 6

Kurt struggled to maintain his balance as the gunman wrapped one arm around his shoulders from behind and dragged him down the hallway, away from the front door and out of sight from any of the front windows. The hand clamped over his mouth, harsh fingers digging painfully into his jaw, silenced any attempts he might have made to draw the attention of the person at the door – not that Kurt had any desire to do so.

Mercedes… no, please not Mercedes… please don't hurt her…

"So, you expecting company, Kurt?" the man hissed in his ear, his voice terse and accusing. "Do you know who's at the door?"

Kurt's mind was too consumed with panic to process what might be the right or wrong answers to the man's questions. He was desperate to somehow protect Mercedes from whatever this man might do to her – but he had no idea how to do that. He just froze, not sure how to respond.

His captor was less than pleased.

Kurt's stomach dropped when he felt the muzzle of the gun pressed up hard under his chin, forcing his head back. A moment later he felt the hot, damp breath of the man holding it, against his ear as he whispered coldly.

"You'd better answer me right the fuck now, Kurt, or I'm going to _kill_ you – and then I'll kill whoever's at the door, too. Do you want that?"

Kurt shook his head frantically, tears falling from his eyes at the very thought of the threat.

"Now I'm going to uncover your mouth," the man informed him in an unsettlingly quiet, calm tone. "And you're going to answer my questions… and if you scream, or yell, or try anything stupid… I'm going to kill your friend at the door… and then I'm going to call my partner and make sure he knows not to bother keeping your daddy alive once he's got what we want. Do you want that, Kurt?"

As he spoke, the man cautiously lifted his hand from Kurt's mouth, and Kurt drew in a soft, shuddering breath, shaking his head pleadingly.

"No," he whispered tearfully. "Please don't… please don't do that…"

"Who's at the door?"

The man's voice was hard, demanding, as he spun Kurt around by the shoulder and pushed him up against the wall, pressing in too close to allow him the chance to escape and warn the unanticipated visitor at the door. His eyes were narrowed and cold, and the gun remained pressed up hard against his throat, just enough to slightly obstruct his breath.

"M-my friend," Kurt answered without hesitation, in a hoarse voice that was barely more than a whisper. "She was c-coming over to hang out for a while. She'll go away. Please, let's just n-not answer it, and she'll go away in a minute. Please don't hurt her, _please_…"

"Shhh," the man soothed him, running his free hand through Kurt's hair in a twisted parody of affection. "That's a good boy. See? That wasn't so hard, was it?"

Kurt shook his head automatically, closing his eyes and swallowing back the sob of relief that rose in his throat as the man removed the gun from his throat – just as the doorbell rang again, and Mercedes' voice was heard, muffled but clearly audible through the door.

"Kurt? Come on, it's freezing out here!"

A couple more rings of the bell punctuated her words.

"You know," the man observed. "That sweet ride of yours is still parked in the driveway, isn't it? She knows you're here. She knows you're expecting her." He paused before concluding ominously, "I don't think she's going anywhere."

Kurt's heart stuttered in his chest, and he shook his head desperately. "Yes, she will," he insisted in a whisper. "Please, she will, you d-don't have to hurt her, _please_…"

"Unfortunately I don't think that's the case," the man sighed. "Because I know better than to think _you_ can hold it together long enough to talk her into leaving without giving me away."

Kurt started to object, but before he could make a sound, the man had raised the gun from his throat to brush it lightly against his cheek, and Kurt flinched instinctively, his breath quickening with panic. The man let out a patronizing sigh, shaking his head in an exaggerated display of false sympathy.

"No," he decided. "I don't think you can handle it. You could _say_ all the right things, but with that open-book face of yours, she'd still be calling the cops on the way to her car. No, I guess I have no choice…"

"My phone!" Kurt blurted out desperately.

The man frowned. "What?"

"If you… if you just let me use my phone for a second, I can… I can send her a text message. I can tell her that my dad changed his mind and wants us to spend the evening together without any company. I can tell her anything you want, just please… please, you don't have to hurt her. I can make her go away, _please_…"

The man's frown of confusion slowly faded into a surprised smile. "I was told you were a smart kid, Kurt – and you haven't disappointed me," he observed.

By who? Who told you that?

The unanswered questions filled Kurt's mind, but he knew better than to ask them.

"Good plan." The man nodded, as the doorbell rang again, several times in succession. "Except for one detail: I won't be letting _you_ use the phone."

Kurt looked up at the man with a slight frown of confusion.

"What, you think I'm stupid?" he sneered with a knowing little smirk. "It'd take you all of two seconds to call 9-1-1, and it'd all be over. No, you just tell me who to text and what to say, and I'll send the message for you."

As he spoke, he took Kurt's confiscated cell phone from his pocket with one hand, the gun still held in the other – no longer pointed directly at Kurt, but still ready at a moment's notice.

"What's your friend's name?"

"M-Mercedes Jones," Kurt whispered, his heart sinking, as he tried not to think about what dangers he might be exposing his friend to by giving her name and phone number to this monster. "Just say that… I'm sorry I forgot to call and tell her, but… my dad decided it was a good night for a family night, and… and I'll have to get with her tomorrow. I'll call her tomorrow. Yeah, that… that sounds good…"

The man nodded his approval of the message as he deftly typed it onto the screen and hit send. Very faintly, Kurt could hear the faint sound of his personal tone on Mercedes' phone outside the door. A few moments later, his own phone buzzed quietly in the man's hand, and he opened it again to read the message. Kurt's heart sank with disappointment, even as it flooded with relief at the distant sound of Mercedes' car door opening and closing again, followed by the sound of a car engine roaring to life and then driving away.

"Good boy." The man smiled in satisfaction. "You wanna know what she said?"

Kurt didn't respond, still trying to get his breathing to return to normal in the wake of the tense encounter. His captor read from the screen anyway.

"_Nice of you to tell me before I got to your driveway. Oh, well, that's all right. Call me tomorrow. I have lots of stories to tell you. Glee club's just not the same without you."_

The man put the phone away, turning his full attention back toward Kurt with a malicious smile of amusement. "Awww, you two are in glee club together? That's so sweet…"

"We… we _were_," Kurt corrected softly, looking away, not sure why he was bothering. "I go to a… a different school now, so…"

"You're a singer, Kurt?" The man persisted, his voice dropping to a low, suggestive tone that made Kurt suddenly want to vomit. His eyes darted up toward his captor's face with alarm as the man closed in on him again, the close quarters of the hallway making it easy to keep him cornered against the wall.

Kurt let out a choked little whimper of protest when the man's large hand found his hip, caressing lightly. Kurt struggled to pull away, but the man's touch abruptly turned hard as he gripped Kurt and slammed him back against the wall again, moving in even closer. He put the gun away in the pocket of his jeans, freeing his other hand to grasp Kurt's hair and jerk his head back slightly. Kurt's breath quickened and he closed his eyes, shaking his head quickly in panicked, pleading denial as his captor's fingertips slid teasingly inward from his hip, brushing across the front of his pants.

"You're a singer, Kurt?" the man observed pensively, waiting until Kurt looked up at him fearfully to give him a chilling smirk, his hushed, suggestive tone adding to the hot rush of humiliation that flooded Kurt's face at the gentle invasion of his touch.

"Then why don't you sing for me?"

Burt Hummel sat rigidly in the passenger seat of his truck, his fingers drumming a rapid, impatient rhythm against his leg, his eyes darting every few seconds to the digital clock on the dashboard. Only five minutes remained of the thirty they'd been given in which to return, and they had to get all the way across Lima in that time.

We're not going to get there in time…

Burt's stomach lurched at the unwelcome thought, his mouth dry with fear as he thought of his son, helpless and utterly vulnerable at the hands of the other robber, waiting for him to return and save his life.

Except… he wasn't entirely sure that the other robber would be inclined to spare Kurt, even if by some miracle they _did_ manage to get back to the house on time.

Burt had failed to meet the demands of their attackers.

"It'll be fine."

But the voice of the man driving Burt's truck was terse and quiet, his grip on the wheel a little too tight, his speed a little too fast for Lima's residential streets at this hour of the evening. Burt found it unsettling that this man seemed far more worried about facing the wrath of his partner than he was about the chance of getting pulled over by the police, in a hijacked vehicle with a bound hostage at his side.

"Fucking ATMs," the man at his side muttered resentfully. "Why'd you have to use the most fucking worthless bank in this worthless little town, anyway? Two ATMs in the whole town? Your bank _sucks_, man."

Burt wanted to point out that the withdrawal limits on ATM machines were designed for just this sort of situation, but he didn't think that further agitating his already edgy captor would serve his best interests – or Kurt's, for that matter.

Each of his bank's two Lima ATM locations had only allowed him to withdraw $1,000. He was returning to the man holding Kurt with far less than he'd expected as it was. The last thing Burt wanted was to give either man any more reason to hurt them than they already had.

_Surely he wouldn't, though… wouldn't punish us for something that we couldn't help. Surely he wouldn't do something to Kurt to get back at me for not doing what he asked, when he asked for something that turned out to be_ impossible… that _wouldn't be fair…_

Burt's stomach lurched as he thought of the other gunman, the one who seemed to be in charge, and the cruel pleasure he'd taken in terrorizing Kurt earlier – the sadistic gleam in the man's eyes as Burt had begged for his son's life.

_Who are you kidding? These guys don't care about_ fair. _These guys are probably planning to shoot both of you in the head before leaving, just to make sure there aren't any witnesses…_

Burt felt sick as he glanced again at the clock, and saw that they were already two minutes late, and they were still a good five minutes away from the house.

"Please," he ground out the words, struggling to hold back the desperation he felt building in his chest. "Please, just call him. Tell him we're almost there."

The driver just shook his head, his mouth in a grim, taut line. "No," he replied quietly. "It's better if I tell him this in person. Don't worry, we'll make it."

But Burt remembered the gun being pressed to Kurt's head, forced into his mouth, and a shudder passed through him. He knew that the man at the house with Kurt would not hesitate to hurt him, out of nothing more than vindictive retaliation for not getting what he wanted, when he wanted it.

_God, I left that sick psycho alone with my boy…_ Burt felt sick, his brow breaking out in a cold sweat, as they turned onto his street. _Please… please let Kurt be okay. Please don't let him have hurt my son…_

"Don't say anything when we go in," the driver advised sharply as they pulled into the Hummels' driveway. "Just keep your mouth shut and let me tell him. He'll take it better from me."

Burt nodded shortly, not really caring about anything at that moment except getting to his son and making sure that he was all right.

He nearly collapsed from sheer relief when he walked through his front door and saw Kurt sitting on the floor against the living room wall. His knees were drawn up in front of him, his face buried against them, and even from the doorway Burt could tell that he was shaking – but he was _alive_.

As the two robbers began to talk in quiet, tense tones, Burt crossed the room to Kurt's side and knelt beside him.

"_Kurt_."

When the boy looked up at him through tearful, red-rimmed eyes, his lips trembling, his shoulders shaking with barely repressed sobs, Burt desperately wished that his arms were free so that he could wrap them around his son and hold him close against his chest, make him feel protected and safe like he'd done so many times when he was a little boy.

But he's not safe… and you can't protect him. Not now, no matter how much you want to…

"Dad," Kurt whispered tearfully, resting his face against Burt's shoulder, leaning into him in a way that only intensified Burt's aching need to hold him. "Dad… you're okay."

"Yeah," Burt replied, his voice low and hoarse with emotion that he struggled to hold back, because it wouldn't do either of them any good right now. "Yeah, kid. I'm okay. Easy… it's all right… shh, calm down, son…"

With a visible effort, Kurt managed to slow the panicked, hitching breaths that shook him, finally raising his head and swallowing hard, blinking back tears in a valiant effort to bring his own emotions under control.

As Burt took in Kurt's disheveled, shaken appearance, an uneasy feeling began to form in the pit of his stomach.

"Kurt," he whispered with quiet urgency, trying to catch his son's eye. "Son… are _you_ okay? He didn't… did he hurt you? While we were gone?"

Kurt bit his lower lip, blinking rapidly, but he shook his head. "No," he replied. "No, I'm fine."

"_Something_ happened," Burt realized, studying his son more closely. "Kurt… what is it? What'd he do?"

"Nothing," Kurt insisted, looking up to meet Burt's eyes at last – but what Burt saw there was far from reassuring. "It's just… Mercedes came by. I forgot she was coming, but… she did, and… and I thought he was going to shoot her, and… I'm just a little freaked out, that's all…"

"But he didn't," Burt surmised. "Right? She left?"

Kurt nodded, looking away again.

Burt frowned, troubled by his son's abruptly evasive behavior.

"_Kurt_…?"

"Yeah, your boy handled _his_ challenge really well."

Burt looked up to see the leader of the two robbers approaching, a smirk of cruel amusement on his lips. Apparently, he'd overheard at least the last part of their conversation. Once again, Burt wanted to strike out at him, to make him hurt the way his son was hurting – but there was nothing he could do, and certainly nothing that would help the situation they were in.

_But… just for a little longer… maybe now that I've given them all I can…_

"_You_, on the other hand…" The man's smile faded, his eyes narrowing in anger, and Burt felt his stomach drop as the gun in the man's hand rose to his eye level, inches from his face. "You're a big fucking failure, Mr. Hummel. Didn't have what I wanted here. Couldn't get it when I sent you after it. What do you think I ought to do about that?"

"I _tried_," Burt insisted, desperate frustration in the words he ground out in response. "I don't _keep_ money around the house, except what you've found. And I took everything out of my accounts that the bank would let me. The banks are _closed_. What do you expect me to _do_?"

The man was quiet for a moment before replying, his voice dangerously soft and warning. "Well, I expect you to speak to me with a little more respect, for one."

He pressed the gun against Burt's temple, and Burt couldn't help tensing, closing his eyes and bracing himself for the worst. But a moment later, the pressure of the gun was removed from his head – and Burt realized that he _hadn't_ been ready for the worst, at all.

Kurt let out a choked, frightened little sound that tore at Burt's heart as the man grabbed him by the collar of his shirt, yanking him several feet away from Burt and dragging him into a kneeling position on the floor. Kurt flinched hard as the man pressed the gun to the back of his neck, pressing down hard enough that Kurt was nearly doubled over.

His breath came in sharp, shallow little gasps, his hands clenching and unclenching helplessly behind his back, his slight frame shaking violently with terror.

"_No_!" Burt cried out. "I'm sorry! I'm sorry, just don't hurt him! For God's sake, he has nothing to _do_ with this! Please, do whatever you want to me, just leave him alone!"

"See, that's just it," the man mused, his mild, thoughtful tone incongruous with the violence of his actions. "I still feel like you owe me a lot more than what I'm leaving with, if I leave right now. I don't think I've gotten what I came for, and… I feel like it's only fair that I get a little something extra thrown into the deal. For my time, you know? But… I don't really want to do _anything_ to _you. Him_, on the other hand…"

Burt tensed, instinctively straining against his bonds as the man crouched beside Kurt, running his free hand slowly down the boy's trembling back until it reached his bound wrists. He leaned in close to Kurt's face with a sadistic grin, his voice hushed but still clearly audible to Burt.

"I can think of a _lot_ of things I'd like to do with _him_."


	7. Chapter 7

Kurt felt the cold, unyielding metal of the gun against the back of his neck, felt the gentle slide of the man's hand down his spine, and his insides seemed to seize up in cold, mind-numbing terror.

_This is it… it's over._

He closed his eyes, trying to shut out the truth, his heart racing with overwhelming panic. His trembling hands struggled uselessly against the bonds that held them behind his back, and he fought back the urge to let out the pleading stream of babble just behind his lips.

He knew better than to think it would do any good.

They have all they're going to get from us now – all the money Dad can give them. So – this is it. He's going to kill us both. He might… might do more than that to me, first, but…

A shudder passed through Kurt's body at the thought, and he tried to shut it out – though the alternative wasn't any more hopeful.

Either way… we're about to die.

"Yeah," the man sneered softly, sliding his hand down between Kurt's back and his arm to gently stroke up his side, laughing at the involuntary tremor that went through him. "How could I pass up a sweet little piece like this? I think this consolation prize might just make up for the fact that I'm not leaving here much richer than when I came."

"So that's the kind of man you are, huh?" Burt spoke up at last, his tone taunting and disgusted – though Kurt could hear the underlying note of desperation in his dad's strained, choked words, knew that his dad was trying anything he could at this point to keep this from happening to him. "Some sick fucking pedophile?"

"Hey, he's no little kid," the man pointed out with a sneer on his lips, sliding his hand down from Kurt's side to caress over the curve of his hip – but Kurt could hear the edge of defensive irritation in his voice, knew that for whatever good or harm it might do them, his father's words were hitting their mark. "It's not like we're talking about a six-year-old or something…"

"Sure. Cause he looks anywhere _close_ to his age – let alone like an adult," Burt argued, his tone openly derisive now. "You like fucking babies, you sick pervert? You baby-raping faggot? Couldn't handle a _real_ man if you tried, could you?"

Kurt's eyes darted up, a pained gasp caught in his throat at the sound of the one word he'd never thought he'd ever hear from his father's lips. His eyes locked with Burt's, and in an instant, mingled with the guilt and regret, he read the reason for the hateful epithet. Whether he had to shame the man out of what he was about to do, or just anger him enough to distract him from his intended course of action, Burt Hummel was determined to do whatever it took to protect his son. Kurt understood that, certainly for the one and only time in his life, that hateful word was being used as an act of _love_.

That understanding still didn't keep the pain of hearing it from clenching tight in his chest.

It worked, though.

Kurt's captor released him abruptly, but the momentary sense of relief he felt was short-lived, almost immediately overwhelmed by fear as the man crossed the room in a few short strides to tower over Kurt's kneeling father, drawing back his heavy booted foot and slamming it hard into Burt's ribcage.

"Stop!" Kurt cried out as his father doubled over with a stifled groan of pain. "Don't! Leave him alone!"

But the man ignored his cries, lashing out with the gun in his hand, smashing it across Burt's face, following the brutal blow with a second kick, this time to his stomach. Kurt saw blood trickling from the corner of his father's mouth, and struggled to get to his feet, his heart racing with panic.

"Stop it!" he demanded, rushing unsteadily toward the man, though he knew there was little he could do with his hands bound behind his back. "Get off of him!"

Kurt's slight frame slammed into the man with all the strength he had, but he only managed to knock him slightly off balance. The man turned on Kurt abruptly, grabbing his arms in a bruising grip to hold him still.

"Knock it off, you stupid little shit!" he snarled. "What're you trying to prove?"

Despite the menacing tone and the cruel fingers biting into his arms, Kurt was still more concerned with his father's well-being than with whatever consequences he might have just brought upon himself. His gaze drifted to where his father was doubled over on his knees on the floor, coughing and choking, blood flowing from a nasty cut on his forehead. Burt shook his head as if to clear it, but even that simple motion threw him off balance, and he collapsed forward onto his face with a low moan, clearly disoriented and dazed from the attack.

"Please," Kurt begged, meeting the man's eyes through the mask he wore, desperate and earnest. "I'll do whatever you want. _Please_." He hesitated a moment before adding, his voice breaking slightly over the words, "H-his heart can't take it. Please. Just… don't hurt him anymore."

The man looked back and forth between Kurt and his father for a moment, before a slow smile spread across his face. "You two are pathetic," he remarked with a sneer of disgust. "All this self-sacrificing true love bull shit." He turned toward Burt, his voice softening as he mused with a nasty smirk, "I think you just got there first, and don't feel like sharing. Is that it? Well, too bad."

"You sick son of a bitch…" Burt's voice was breathless and weary with pain, but still held a tremor of rage, as he struggled to regain his balance and get back up onto his knees.

The man ignored him as he dragged Kurt a few yards away, well out of Burt's reach, and shoved him down onto his knees on the floor, one hand tangling in his hair to hold him in place. Kurt bit back a cry of pain as his head was jerked backward, his heart racing as he tried not to think about what was surely going to happen next.

"Toss me the tape," the man ordered his partner, holding out his free hand to catch it.

From where he knelt on the living room floor, Kurt couldn't see the other man's face, but he could hear the apprehension in his voice as he replied. "Come on, man. Let's just get out of here."

But even as he protested, he handed over the tape.

His leader leaned down close to Kurt's face, his voice dangerously soft as he ordered, "Don't move, Kurt. I'm just gonna tie your dad up so he can't make any trouble. Don't make me do anything worse to him. Okay?"

Kurt shook his head pleadingly, unable to find words through the rising panic that choked him.

The man left him there, crossing the room to Burt again and shoving him face down against the floor again before swiftly binding his ankles together with the tape. Burt let out a low groan, weakly attempting to pull away, but without success, as the man took an additional piece of tape from the roll and pressed it down firmly over Burt's mouth. Then, the man turned him over onto his side, reaching to unfasten Burt's belt and remove it.

Kurt's stomach lurched with horror – but the man just used the belt to fasten Burt's bound wrists around the leg of the sofa, buckling it tightly closed. As he headed back toward Kurt with a satisfied grin on his face, Kurt realized why he'd done it.

Because for him to be able to do what he's going to do to me… there has to be something to hold my dad back…

"You're really worried about your daddy's heart, aren't you, Kurt?" the man observed softly, crouching down beside him, holding him still with one hand and running the other slowly, suggestively down his chest. His cold eyes were filled with cruel mirth as he held Kurt's gaze and went on, his voice dropping to a low, deceptively gentle tone. "What do you think? Think his heart can take watching me fuck you across the arm of this sofa? Right here in front of him?"

Kurt shuddered, turning his face away and shaking his head, though he wouldn't allow himself to voice the plea just behind his lips.

"I don't know, Kurt," the man mused in a tone of feigned uncertainty. "It'll drive him out of his mind… not being able to get to you… to save you…"

Kurt swallowed back the sob that rose in his throat, blinking back tears. "Please," he whispered. "Just… just let us go. _Please_. We won't say anything, just… _don't_…"

"_Dude_." The other man's voice was trembling, uneven, as if he was on the verge of panic himself. He sounded as if he was standing nearer than before. "This is fucked up. You're not really gonna _do_ this, are you?"

Without even looking at him, the man holding Kurt took his gun from his waistband and took aim at his partner. The other man didn't have time to move, or protest, or even utter a sound before he'd pulled the trigger. The gunshot didn't sound like Kurt would have expected – just a quiet _ping_, followed by an awful thudding sound as the murdered man's body hit the floor – followed by nothing but silence.

Kurt barely had time to process what he'd just witnessed, before the man stood up in front of him, and he felt the cold metal against his temple. He flinched violently, drawing in a sharp, shuddering gasp, but could not pull away due to the vicious grip of the man's hand in his hair.

"Shhh," the man murmured soothingly. "Easy… it's all right. That was part of the plan all along. But I'm not gonna kill _you_. You've still got work to do, don't you, sweetheart?"

Kurt let out a shaky breath as the gun was removed from his head and the man moved around to stand in front of him – but then, the sound of a zipper being pulled down, followed by the sight of his captor's red, half-hard cock in his hand, replaced his relief with an overwhelming wave of revulsion. He could hear his father's attempts to protest what was happening, could hear his useless struggles from across the room, but all he could focus on was the erection directly in front of his face – the first he'd ever seen in real life that was not his own.

"Come on," he urged softly, tugging Kurt's head forward by the grip he held on his hair. "Just like we practiced. Show me what a quick learner you are."

Knowing better than to fight when his father's life was on the line, Kurt hesitantly, obediently opened his mouth. Despite his promises of cooperation, however, sheer instinct made him try to pull away as the man shoved into his mouth, pulling him forward by the hair until his eyes watered and he couldn't breathe, choking. Panicked, Kurt gagged, trying to expel the intrusion from his throat, the edges of his vision going grey from lack of oxygen.

Abruptly, the man pulled back, leaning down into Kurt's face and shaking him, snarling in his face. "That better not have been your teeth I just felt, you stupid little whore. You even _think_ of biting me and I will make you watch while I break every bone in his body and then blow his fucking head off, do you understand me?"

"_Please_!" Kurt sobbed out, gasping for breath, frantic at the horrific mental images evoked by the threat. "Please, I d-didn't mean to! I'm s-sorry… I don't know h-how… I've never…"

"Never done this before?" The man finished for him, nodding, a mockery of patience in his slow, patronizing words. Kurt nodded pathetically in response, just desperate to appease him before he did anything else to hurt his dad. "I know. You've never done much of _anything_ before, have you, Kurt?"

Kurt's stomach dropped as the man dragged him up to his feet, one hand reaching around behind him to grope at his ass and jerk him in close against his captor's body. He leaned in to speak softly against Kurt's ear, and the words sent a shiver of dread down his spine.

"But we're about to change all that… aren't we?"

He moved around behind Kurt so that his view of his father was no longer obstructed, one arm sliding firmly around his waist to hold him still as the other reached around in front to shamelessly grope the boy's soft cock through the coarse fabric of his jeans. Kurt winced, his face flushing hot with humiliation, closing his eyes rather than meeting his father's anguished gaze.

"Let's see…" The man speculated, glancing around the room as he idly stroked his captive's body, a chillingly gentle violation. "I could bend you over the coffee table so that he gets the side view. Make sure Daddy gets to watch every single little detail. Or over the other end of the couch, so he gets to look into your eyes the whole time…"

Kurt couldn't hold back a choked, pleading whimper at that suggestion, shaking his head slowly, despairingly.

The man let out a harsh laugh. "Yeah, I agree. That's definitely better."

"Please, don't," Kurt whispered, his face streaked with tears as the man pushed him toward the sofa. "_Please_…"

He'd said he'd do anything to spare his dad more pain, and he'd meant it – but this was more than he could even imagine. Sheer terror overwhelmed him, and he couldn't help the pitiful pleading words that filled him with such shame.

Unmoved by his pleas, the man shoved him down over the arm of the sofa, reaching around him to unbuckle his belt and unfasten his pants, then jerking them down around his thighs, leaving him humiliatingly exposed.

"Nice," he observed in a sickeningly soft voice, rough fingertips trailing slowly down the cleft of Kurt's ass in a way that made him shiver, his stomach twisting painfully. "I might not have gotten as much money as I expected… but this is _definitely_ gonna be worth the trip."

Kurt braced himself for the worst, biting down on his lower lip and steeling himself not to cry out, not to give the bastard the satisfaction – but abruptly, the man grabbed him and lifted him off the arm of the sofa, pushing him down instead on the floor beside it – almost within his father's reach, had Burt's hands not been securely bound to the leg of the sofa.

"Forgot something," he explained with a casual shrug, heading off toward the kitchen. "Be right back. Don't go anywhere."

Kurt's eyes met his father's for a moment, and he had to look away at the helpless anguish he saw there, the futile desperation. Burt struggled to break the bonds that held him, but was making no progress.

"Don't," Kurt whispered, his gaze averted and staring at the floor. His voice shook dangerously as he tried to reassure his father with words that he didn't even slightly believe. "It… it'll be all right. Just… don't piss him off, okay? I'll just… do what he wants, and then… and then he'll let us go, and we'll be okay. I just… I have to do this so he doesn't… so he doesn't hurt you, and… and then he'll let us go. He _has_ to. Just… don't do anything, okay?"

Though he tried desperately to keep his tone steady and calm, he could hear the panic in his own trembling, rambling words as they rose in pitch with every syllable. He flinched back against the sofa as their captor returned to the living room, a bottle of cooking oil in his hand. He grabbed Kurt by the arm and hauled him up before slinging him roughly over the arm of the sofa again.

"Ready?" he asked brightly. Then, without waiting for a response. "All right, then. Let's get this party started."


	8. Chapter 8

Cruel hands shoved Kurt down over the arm of the sofa, and suddenly he couldn't breathe, his terror chasing the air from his lungs as surely as the impact of his stomach against the sofa beneath him.

The new position only served to emphasize Kurt's feeling of total exposure and vulnerability, with his jeans and underwear pooled around his ankles, his hands still helplessly bound behind him, and his ass humiliatingly raised, alarmingly accessible to his captor.

His eyes met his father's for just a moment, where he was bound on the floor just a few short yards away, and Kurt felt another little piece of his dignity shatter at the realization of just exactly what his father was seeing – what he was _going_ to see in the next few minutes.

Kurt turned his face away from his father, closing his eyes against the hot tears of humiliation that burned behind them.

A rough, callused hand ran slowly over his exposed hip, and Kurt flinched away from the gently invasive touch, though he was powerless to escape it. A low, dark chuckle behind him made his face flush with shame, as he felt a single finger trail teasingly down the cleft of his ass.

"So fucking pretty," the man observed softly. "And I bet you're tight. No one else has ever touched you, have they, Kurt?"

Kurt's heart clenched at those words, and an overwhelming, sinking feeling of sorrow and regret filled him as he shook his head automatically in response, unable to find words. The tears escaped his eyes as the image of his boyfriend's bright, innocent smile filled his mind.

_Blaine… you were supposed to be my first… but now…_

_Will you_ ever _want me now?_

"Yeah… didn't think to bring any lube," the man explained, bringing Kurt's thoughts back to the present as he backed off a little, holding Kurt down with one hand on his bound wrists. A moment later, Kurt heard the sound of the cap popping off of the bottle of oil in the man's free hand. "And I'd just take you dry, but I think that'd hurt _me_ as much as you." He laughed. "Well, not quite. Anyway, this should make it a little easier for both of us."

There was nothing Kurt could imagine that could have made this _easy_ in any way.

He bit back a startled cry of fear at the sensation of blunt, unyielding pressure, barely eased by the slick moisture of the cooking oil – and then _couldn't_ hold back a choked whimper at the searing pain that followed. He gasped for breath as his body automatically fought to reject the intrusion, but the man just pressed harder, laughing coldly at the shudder that passed through Kurt's unwilling body.

"Oh, you think _that_ hurts, sweetheart? We're just getting started. Wait 'til I get my cock in you, kiddo." He laughed again, and the note of pleased satisfaction in his voice made Kurt feel sick. "I knew you'd be tight, but I had _no idea_…"

It was only his finger, Kurt realized, his heart sinking with dread. That sharp, painful stab was nothing more than the man's _finger_.

Kurt closed his eyes, struggling to shut out the reality of what was happening to him and focus on something, _anything_ else – but the wet, sloshing sound of the oil as the man slathered his erection with it; the cold, wet sensation as some more of it was poured over his ass as well; the sound of his father's wordless, helpless protest from across the room – all served so increase his fear and humiliation, and kept him viciously, mercilessly fastened to the moment.

"Now, here's how this is going to work." His captor's voice was light, almost amused, as he raised his voice slightly to address them both. "I want eye contact, boys. The whole time. I want you looking at each other's faces as if the second you take your eyes off that face, it's gonna get _blown off_…" He leaned in close to Kurt's face, his voice lowered with menace, and Kurt flinched, swallowing back a shuddering sob as he felt the cold steel of the gun against his cheek again. "Because _it is_."

He rose up again, putting his gun away as he turned his attention toward Burt again. "Got that, boys?"

Kurt's eyes locked onto his father's for a moment – and his heart sank with a deep, inexplicable sense of disappointment at what he read there. Until that moment, he realized, though it was utterly foolish – a little part of him had still believed that this wasn't _actually_ going to happen.

No, before it could, his father would manage to break the bonds that held him, and then he would close the distance between himself and the villain threatening his son and disarm the man in another instant's time, unleashing his fury on the menace to his family's safety and sanctity and leaving the man a whimpering, begging wreck, crumpled on the floor.

"_I'd never let anything happen to you, kid,"_ Burt would reassure him.

"_I know,"_ he'd respond without hesitation, looking into his father's eyes with full confidence that it would always be true.

But all Kurt saw in his father's eyes in that moment was helpless fear and a desperate rage that was as impotent as his efforts to break through the tape and leather that bound him. Burt looked up at the man behind Kurt, his eyes blazing with such a breathtaking hate that Kurt had to look away – because as powerful as that hatred was, he knew that it couldn't save him.

His _father_ couldn't save him – now, when he needed it most – and that sudden, painful certainty was just a violation of a different sort.

_Don't… don't think about it. Just… just _survive. _Just… do whatever you have to do to get through this, and… and we'll be okay… we'll be _alive.

_We_ have _to be…_

"Yes," he whispered. "Yes, I… I get it."

He blinked back the tears that filled his eyes, forcing himself to look into his father's eyes, his chest shuddering with the humiliation that burned though him. But in that moment, when their eyes met, Kurt's breath caught in his throat – the hate was gone from his father's eyes, replaced instead with an overwhelming love, reaching out to him across the distance – and suddenly, Kurt _couldn't_ look away.

His father's gaze had become his lifeline.

Rough hands gripped his hips, and Kurt jumped, his gaze instinctively darting backward before he forced his eyes to his father's again, hoping his attacker hadn't noticed the momentary lapse. His body was rigid as he struggled to remain quiet and still, to not give the bastard the satisfaction of hearing him cry.

When it actually happened, Kurt _screamed_.

He couldn't help it. The pain was worse than he could have imagined – overwhelming, consuming, until there was nothing but the sheer agony that coursed through him in fresh waves with every brutal thrust. Hot tears sprang to his eyes, blurring his vision before they spilled down his cheeks – but he didn't take his gaze from his father's face.

Burt's bound arms were taut with useless effort as he struggled against his bonds, with no success – but he never looked away, his tearful eyes blazing with mingled love and rage. Burt tried to speak through the tape that covered his mouth, but could only manage a hoarse, wordless sound of protest.

Kurt nearly sobbed with relief at the brief respite as the man abruptly stopped moving behind him for a moment. But then, Kurt's stomach lurched with fear as the man's words slowly filtered through the haze of his pain to register in his mind.

"You know, Dad, you're kinda killing my hard on, you know that? If you don't shut the fuck up, I can always just leave you here and take this party elsewhere. Hit the road with your kid and finish up in a nameless road-side motel a few hundred miles from here. Would you rather I do that instead?"

Kurt's heart raced with panic, his eyes still locked onto his father's. The flash of fear in Burt Hummel's eyes was obvious, and he immediately went still and silent, shaking his head slowly.

"Good. That's better." The smirk on the man's face was audible in his voice as he delivered a pointed, deliberately vicious thrust into Kurt's already agonized body. "Yeah," he groaned in pleasure, his breathless words punctuated by each brutal thrust that followed. "You're so tight, baby… I'm telling you… worth this whole… damn wasted trip…"

Kurt's face flushed with shame, and he fought back the urge to vomit, wanting nothing more than just to _die_ so that the utter humiliation would be over – but he didn't look away.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, the cruel fingers that clutched at his bruised hips tightened, and the man let out a choked cry of pleasure. Kurt felt a rush of wet heat inside him, and his stomach turned with disgust as he realized what it was – but the feeling was quickly replaced with relief as the man pulled out and released him, taking a step backward and allowing him to slide down the side of the couch to collapse on the floor.

Kurt let out a whimper of pain as his battered body hit the floor, the soft carpet doing nothing to ease the impact. As it faded, however, he became aware of another sensation: a slow ooze of disgusting wetness, sliding out of him onto the carpet, and he fought back a sob, his face burning with shame.

_There's going to be a stain there… a permanent reminder… I'll never be able to walk through this room again… never be able to use cooking oil in a bottle just like that… God, never be able to _look in my father's eyes _again…without…_

The cold steel of the gun, abruptly against his temple – the ominous click, loud in the silence – scattered Kurt's thoughts like dust on the breeze, and his stomach dropped as the man pressed hard, pushing the side of his face back against the arm of the sofa. He knew, in that moment, that this was it. There was no chance – _never had been_ any chance – that this man was going to leave them alive when he left their house. Kurt's breath caught in his throat as he waited for the blast, for the pain – for the sweet, merciful nothingness that would follow.

Instead, the man crouched down beside him, a cold smile of false sympathy on his lips as he met Kurt's eyes.

"Here's what you're gonna do, Kurt," he stated softly, but with an edge of steel to his words that left no room for argument. "You're gonna stay right here, on the floor in this room, for one hour before attempting to get any kind of help. If you don't wait – I'll come back for you. Do you understand?"

Kurt _didn't_ understand, couldn't quite comprehend what the man was saying. He couldn't quite believe that he actually meant to _let them live_ – but he nodded anyway in automatic obedience, his breath ragged and shallow as he struggled to keep his shock and panic under some semblance of control – and failed pathetically.

"I'll come back, Kurt," the man repeated softly, his free hand reaching out to lightly caress up the inside of Kurt's bare, trembling thigh. "I'll come back… and I'll do this all again… and when I leave that time, there won't be any question: you and your dad will both be dead." He paused a moment, studying Kurt's face with a cold scrutiny that made him quake inside, desperate to pull away, and yet not daring to resist the deceptively gentle contact. "Do you believe me, Kurt?" he asked in a soft, leading whisper.

Kurt did – completely.

He nodded shakily, swallowing back a sob and turning his face further into the arm of the sofa in a vain attempt to hide.

"Good," the man murmured, sliding his hand around to Kurt's ass in a gesture of twisted affection, before removing the gun and rising to his feet. "Good boy."

Kurt raised his eyes uncertainly at the sound of the man's retreating footsteps, watching in numb disbelief as the man stepped carelessly over the still form of his murdered partner and out into the darkness, but only after locking and closing the door firmly behind him.

_He's gone… and we're alive… and he's_ gone, _he left, and… _

Kurt's eyes burned with despairing tears as he tried to think of what happened next – of going on after this, of what he'd see on his father's face _every single time_ he looked at him from now on, of trying to get back to anything remotely resembling _normal_, when _everything_ he'd ever been had been ruthlessly shattered in a few minutes' time.

He couldn't. It wasn't possible.

_God._

_Why didn't he just_ kill me_?_

Burt stared blankly at the front door for a long moment, unable to believe that he was still alive – that the man had simply walked out without a second glance. He found himself watching the door for a few moments, just waiting for the man to come back in, laughing at the false hope he'd given them before taking aim with his weapon and ending their lives.

But – he didn't.

_He's really gone. We made it. We're going to be okay…_

Then, the quiet sound of Kurt's soft, heartrending cries reached him from the other side of the sofa, and Burt's stomach dropped as he reconsidered his assessment of their situation.

_Kurt… my boy, my_ baby… _what that _monster_ did to him…_

The aching, agonizing sound of Kurt's despair tore at Burt's heart, and all he wanted in that moment was just to be with Kurt and hold him, to reassure him that everything was going to be all right. He tried to speak through the tape over his mouth, tried to get Kurt's attention.

_If he'd just come over here and untie me…_

But the only response to Burt's wordless attempts was the barely audible sound of Kurt's breathless sobs.

Burt struggled to work the tape off of his lips, pushing at it with his tongue, rubbing it as hard as he could against the side of the couch next to him in an attempt to pull it free. Frustration filled him as he found himself unable to move the tape more than a millimeter at a time, and he thought again of how easily Kurt could get him loose, if he'd just come out from his pitiful hiding place on the other side of the sofa and help him.

All Burt wanted in that moment was just to get to his child, to make him know that he was safe, that no one was going to hurt him any more; but the only thing keeping Burt from his son at this point _was_ his son – and that was the most frustrating thing of all.

Burt gave up on the gag, and instead started pulling his wrists back and forth, wearing the tape against the belt the man had used to bind his wrists to the leg of the sofa. His jaw set with determination as he was rewarded at last with a tiny tear in the tape – which was all he needed. He jerked on it again, focusing on the weakness he'd created in the tape – and then again, and again, and _finally_ – the tape gave, and Burt's hands were free.

He ignored the tingling burn in them as the blood rushed back into his fingers, tearing the remnants of the tape off before reaching up to pull the tape off of his mouth. It stung, but Burt barely noticed as he crawled awkwardly but hurriedly on his hands and knees, closing the distance that separated him from Kurt. His voice was hoarse and aching as he rounded the end of the sofa and his son came into his view.

"_Kurt_…"

Kurt was huddled against the wall next to the sofa, his knees drawn up under him, his wrists still bound behind his back, his entire body trembling violently. At the sound of his father's voice, he flinched, turning his face away, his eyes tightly closed. Burt's eyes were unwillingly drawn to the dark, wet stain on the floor, half-under his son's battered, exposed body. He shuddered, looking away and trying not to focus on the vivid memory of what had caused it.

"Kurt," he tried again, his voice a little stronger this time. "Son, come here… it's all right, we're safe now…"

Burt's approach was cautious as he shuffled nearer to Kurt, reaching out a slow, careful hand toward him. Kurt's shoulder jerked under his hand, and Burt almost withdrew, as tears sprang to his eyes. Instead, he laid his hand against Kurt's shoulder again, steadying and shushing him gently as he reached with his other hand for the tape that bound Kurt's wrists.

As the tape fell away, Kurt's arms fell limply at his sides, and he stared down at them blankly, as if not understanding why they were there, before looking up at his dad through wide, stricken eyes. His lips parted, trembling, as he drew in a deep, shuddering breath.

"Kurt," Burt whispered again, edging in nearer. "Son… it's all right now…"

Kurt blinked a few times, still visibly in shock, before slowly focusing on his dad's face – and immediately breaking down, his shoulders quaking with sobs as he raised clumsy, numb hands in a pitiful attempt to hide his face. Burt moved forward then, wrapping his arms around his son and pulling him cautiously close. He was relieved when Kurt leaned into him, burying his face against his father's chest.

"I'm sorry," he cried brokenly. "Dad, I'm _so sorry_!"

"Shh, no, Kurt," Burt whispered, shaking his head. "No, you didn't do anything wrong. It's not your fault. It's not your fault, son…"

"I sh-should've… h-helped you," Kurt choked out. "I'm s-sorry…"

"No, it's fine. I'm fine. All right? We're…" Burt struggled over the words, trying to put a conviction into them that he didn't quite feel. "We're both going to be fine…" He was quiet for a moment before drawing back a little, trying to meet Kurt's eyes, though Kurt kept his head bowed, unwilling to lift his gaze from the floor between them. "You're in shock, Kurt. You're hurt. We need to get help…"

"_No_!" Kurt cried out, his wide, panicked eyes shooting up instantly to meet Burt's pleadingly. "No, we can't, he'll come back!"

Burt's heart ached at the sheer terror on his son's face, as he realized that what to him had been a clear ploy to buy some getaway time, had to Kurt been a deadly certain promise. The monster who'd terrorized them, who'd so brutally violated his child, had Kurt convinced even after he'd left that he still held all the power.

"No, he won't, Kurt," Burt assured him gently. "He's long gone, I promise. It's all right."

"Please," Kurt sobbed, lowering his head again. "_Please_, don't, he'll come back, he'll do it again, _don't_…"

"Son… it's going to be all right, okay?" Burt insisted firmly, taking Kurt's shoulders in his hands and trying to meet his eyes. "You have to _trust me_… all right?"

Kurt nodded, but he was crying so hard that Burt wasn't sure he'd heard him at all.

"Okay. Now, I'm pretty sure he took your phone with him when he left, and mine's over in the shop. I'm gonna just walk over there real quick and come right back…"

Kurt's shaking hands suddenly clutched at Burt's shirt, clinging to him desperately, as he turned panicked eyes up to meet his father's again. His voice came out as a strangled, frantic plea, almost animalistic in its terror and desperation.

"No, Daddy, _please! Please don't leave me_!"

Burt felt his careful resolve to keep control of his own emotions quaking at those words, and he nearly lost it – but he fought back the tears that sprang to his eyes, swallowing back a sob as he wrapped his arms around his boy and held him close, his voice low and gentle as he did his best to reassure him.

"I won't, I won't. I'm not going anywhere, all right? I'm not going anywhere without you, baby… I promise…"

As the violent tremors that shook Kurt's battered, exposed body began to subside back to what was beginning to seem like a normal level, Burt carefully loosed his grip on the boy and rose to his feet, whispering reassurance in response to Kurt's fearful whimper of protest.

"Not going anywhere, Kurt, I promise… just getting a blanket for you… just a second…"

Burt took the soft, fleecy throw blanket from the back of the sofa and wrapped it carefully around Kurt's shoulders, an immense feeling of relief flowing through him at finally covering him. Then, he reached down to remove the soiled, damp underwear and jeans that were still pooled around Kurt's ankles, setting them aside.

_Evidence… we'll need those later…_

Carefully, so gently, afraid that the slightest wrong touch might cause him more pain, Burt slid his arm down the length of the blanket over Kurt's back, and then smoothed it down under his legs, leaving his arm under the bend of Kurt's knees for a moment, allowing him to get used to the contact.

"Okay," he whispered at last. "Okay, Kurt… I want you to put your arms around my neck, all right? I'm gonna get you up. Just hold onto me, baby, all right?"

Kurt nodded against his shoulder, and obediently raised shaking arms to wrap around his father's neck, clinging to him like a small child as Burt braced his elbow against the sofa, one arm around Kurt's back and the other under his knees as he awkwardly, painfully struggled to his feet. Once he had regained his balance, he started toward the door. He managed to get it unlocked and turn the handle with one hand, and then they were outside, in the cool, night that seemed so eerily untouched by the personal tragedy that had just befallen them.

The first thing Burt noticed was his truck, still parked right in front of the house – and with the keys still in the ignition.

_Thank God…_

Burt opened the passenger side door and gently set Kurt inside, feeling a sharp pang of guilt as Kurt winced at the contact, letting out a pained little whimper.

"Shh, it's gonna be all right," Burt assured him, running one hand tenderly through his messy, sweat-matted hair, his heart aching when Kurt's face turned into his touch. "You're gonna be okay… I promise…"

Burt buckled the seat belt around Kurt before going around to the driver's side and getting in, then starting the engine. As he headed down the driveway and then made the turn toward downtown Lima and the single hospital the town had, Burt Hummel watched his suffering son out of the corner of his eye, and silently prayed that he would be able to keep his promise.


	9. Chapter 9

Burt's truck had barely come to a stop in the ambulance bay directly in front of the Emergency Room entrance before he was opening the door and getting out, rushing around to the passenger side to unfasten Kurt's seat belt and lift the semi-conscious boy into his arms.

Kurt let out a pitiful little sound that was something between a sob and a whimper of pain at being moved. His arm around Burt's shoulders was alarmingly slack, but the trembling fingers of his free hand tangled in the front of his father's shirt, clinging to him desperately. Kurt hid his face against the soft, worn flannel of his father's shirt, mouthing weak words that Burt felt more than heard.

"Daddy, please… _please_…"

The words tore at Burt's heart, though he couldn't know what it was exactly that his child was asking for.

_Anything… I'll give you_ anything… _oh God, my_ baby…

"It's all right," Burt whispered, brushing his lips against Kurt's damp, disheveled hair line as he steadied his son's weight in his arms. "It's all right, Kurt, we're here… everything's gonna be okay, son…"

Burt's eyes were drawn unbidden toward the dark, wet stain that soiled the seat where Kurt had rested, but he forced himself to look away from it and focus instead on the task at hand: getting help for his injured, traumatized son as quickly as possible. Judging by his past experience with Lima General's Emergency Room, Burt already had rather dubious expectations.

He was surprised and relieved when, even before he'd reached the check-in window, the young woman behind the counter had picked up her telephone and punched in a couple of numbers.

"Yes, I'm going to need a bed out here immediately. Thank you." She rose to her feet behind the counter, leaning forward to get a better look at Kurt before meeting Burt's eyes sharply. "What happened?"

Burt was startled by the suspicion in her tone, but he supposed it was a rather normal reaction. His gaze fell once more onto his son, cradled close in his arms, but trembling violently, whimpering with what might have been pain, or might have been fearful pleading. Kurt's face was badly bruised, as if he'd been severely beaten – and that wasn't all that far from the truth.

This woman had simply pinpointed the wrong man as his abuser.

Burt knew that he'd done nothing wrong – _Done nothing, all right… nothing to help him while that animal tore into him and… and _violated_ him_ – but still, he found himself stumbling over his words, his face flushing self-consciously as he tried to explain.

"He was… attacked."

"Attacked?" The woman's tone remained dubious, as was her single raised eyebrow. "Attacked by whom?"

"Not by me!" Burt snapped. "Can we do the third degree later, please? He needs help!"

As if on cue, two orderlies arrived just then with a wheeled hospital bed between them. Burt hesitated as they moved to take Kurt from his arms, reluctant to relinquish his hold on his son to these strangers – even if the care they offered was the very reason he'd come here in the first place. The men were gentle and cautious as they tried to unwrap Kurt's arm from around his father and take his weight onto themselves, but Kurt just clung tighter to Burt, letting out a soft whine of protest.

"No," he whimpered. "Please, don't… please, don't…"

"Shhh," Burt soothed him, leaning down over the bed to lay Kurt down himself, assisted by one of the orderlies at either end. "It's all right, son. You're safe…"

"D-don't… don't leave me…" Kurt's whispered words were breathless and frantic, his hands clenched in Burt's shirt as he tried to draw back. "_Please_…"

"I'm not going anywhere, Kurt." Burt kept his words steady and calm, struggling to keep his own tears from his voice as he gently stroked Kurt's hair back from his face with one hand, the other reaching down to catch Kurt's and gently disentangle it from his shirt. "I'm right here, son. We just need to get you taken care of, all right? I'll be right here with you, the whole time. Not going anywhere…"

"What happened?" The woman behind the counter had come around it now and was standing beside the bed, but her tone had softened, and when Burt looked up, he saw that she was taking in the scene with sorrowful, compassionate eyes, her suspicions apparently allayed by the interaction she'd witnessed. "Sir, I'm sorry, but I really need you to be more specific. What do you mean by attacked?"

"These… these two men…" Burt swallowed hard, his throat suddenly feeling tight and obstructed, barely able to force the words out. "They… they broke into our house, and… and they…" He hesitated, unable to look at her, or at Kurt, as he tried to go on. "They hurt him real bad. They – _He – _assaulted him." Burt closed his eyes for a moment, forcing out the final, crucial word in a voice that was barely over a whisper. "_Sexually_."

"Okay, we're going to get him through triage and back into a private room as quickly as possible, all right?" The young woman's voice did not betray any shock she might have felt as she reached over the counter and took some papers attached to a clipboard from her desk. "We need to make sure that he's stable and not in any immediate, life-threatening danger before we do anything else. Have you called the police, Mr….?"

"Hummel," Burt supplied numbly, automatically. "And… n-no…" he stammered, momentarily confused, unable to remember why he hadn't yet done something so obviously necessary. "My… my phone. I didn't have my phone, and… and he took Kurt's, and…" He looked up at the woman suddenly, taking his keys from his pocket and holding them out to her. "My car is parked in the ambulance bay. There's… _evidence_… on the seat. I think. I mean… he didn't use…"

Burt suddenly felt sick, and couldn't bring himself to go any further. He raised the back of his free hand to his mouth, closing his eyes and shaking his head as he tried to shut out the brutally vivid images that assailed his mind.

"Mr. Hummel. _Mr. Hummel_."

The young woman's firm but gentle voice drew his attention from his thoughts, and Burt blinked at her distractedly. All traces of suspicion had long since been lost in compassion in her eyes, and she spoke in a slow, clear tone, compensating for his obvious shock and trauma-induced confusion.

"I'll have someone move it for you, if that's okay, so you don't have to leave your son. We'll call the police as well, and when they arrive, you can let them know about the… possible evidence, in the car. All right?"

Burt nodded, his shoulders falling in grateful relief, his eyes burning with tears that he wouldn't let fall – _couldn't_, not as long as Kurt still needed him to be strong, to reassure him, to _protect_ him…

_But you couldn't… and you didn't… and now there's nothing you can do to fix this…_

_He's broken._

_You let that monster_ break _your son._

"Mr. Hummel," the woman persisted.

"Y-yes?"

"Sir, are _you_ all right?" she asked, frowning as she looked him over with assessing eyes. "You've been bleeding, I can see. Were you hit in the head?"

Burt shook his head, waving a trembling, dismissive hand. "I'm fine. Just take care of Kurt."

"We should have _you_ looked at, too…"

"Later," Burt insisted, his voice a bit harsher than he intended. "I'm not leaving him."

"All right." Her voice was calm and placating now. "You don't appear to be at any serious risk, so that's fine. We can check you out once we've made sure that Kurt is stable and taken care of. Now, I'm also going to need you to fill out these forms…" She held up the clipboard, making sure he was watching as she tucked it into a clear plastic pocket at the foot of the bed. "… but that can wait. Our first priority is making sure that Kurt is all right. I'll send these with you, and once he's resting, please fill them out as soon as you can."

"Fine."

But Burt was already looking away and focusing his full attention back on his son. The orderly at the head of the bed gave him a questioning look, and Burt nodded, gently squeezing Kurt's hand in reassurance. The orderlies began to move the bed toward a set of double doors leading out of the main ER waiting room, and the boy opened his eyes in alarm at the unexpected movement, momentarily panicked until he sought out his father's face.

"Dad! Daddy, don't… don't leave…"

"Shhh," Burt soothed him, his voice choked with unshed tears. "Now, come on, buddy, I already told you… I'm not going anywhere, all right? I'm right here."

"Wh-where are they… where are they taking me?" Kurt asked, and Burt was alarmed by the slight slurring of the fearful question.

"Just gonna get you checked out, make sure you're okay," he assured Kurt gently. "And wherever they take you, I'm coming too. Okay? I'm not leaving you, not for a second."

"O-okay," Kurt whispered, his voice weak and breathless as he closed his eyes again, his grip on his father's hand almost painful, his knuckles white and trembling around his father's hand. "Okay…"

They stopped just inside a small, brightly lit room off to the side of the waiting room, where a tall woman in a white lab coat introduced herself as Tammy with a pleasant smile; and Burt followed in kind, though he couldn't quite manage to return it. She gently but efficiently checked Kurt's vital signs, her smile fading into a grim, taut line as she noted his pulse and shined a small light into his eyes.

"What's your name, sweetie?" she asked, her words a little clearer, a little more carefully precise than they would have been in ordinary conversation.

Burt frowned. He knew that she wasn't asking because she didn't already know.

Kurt frowned, his eyes squinted shut against the bright light, as he whispered, "K-Kurt Hummel."

Tammy nodded slowly. "Good. Can you tell me what year it is, Kurt?"

There was a tense, fearful moment when Kurt just frowned, shaking his head slightly in confusion – but then he answered correctly, his whispered response weak and uncertain.

"Very good." Tammy's tone was gentle and reassuring, but her expression was serious as she directed her attention toward Burt. "It looks like he took a couple of blows to the head during the attack. Is that right?"

Burt's stomach lurched as the vivid memory of the pistol slamming down across his son's face suddenly filled his mind. He swallowed back the urge to vomit, nodding slowly in response.

Tammy actually seemed relieved by that information, her shoulders falling slightly as she let out a breath. "Then, that probably accounts for some of his confusion. We'll know more once he's seen a doctor. He seems to be more or less stable, but his pulse is a little weak. It's probably due to blood loss, but we won't know for sure until he's examined more thoroughly. At that point, the doctor may decide he needs a transfusion, and we'll need to run a blood test to verify his blood type before doing that. At this point, though, I'm just going to get a standard IV started to replace some of the fluids he's lost and make sure he's hydrated. Then we'll get the two of you into a private room, and go from there. All right?"

Burt nodded, staring down at Kurt, who was shifting restlessly on the bed, biting down on his lower lip, his face pale and contorted with pain.

"Just hurry," Burt said softly. "He's really hurting."

"Of course," Tammy agreed before turning back toward Kurt, making sure she had his full attention before asking, "Are you right or left handed, sweetie?".

"R-right," Kurt murmured, and once again Burt was alarmed by the slowness and slurring of his response.

"Okay, then I'm going to use your left hand for the IV, all right?" Tammy explained softly. "Trust me, you'll appreciate that when you're feeling a little better. And that means… I'm gonna need your hand, sweetie…"

Kurt let out a choked little whimper of protest as she tried to take his hand from Burt's, turning toward his father. "Dad," he cried softly. "Dad, I n-need…"

"Shh, I know, it's all right," Burt assured him, moving around the table and crouching down beside it to wrap one arm around his son's shoulders, holding him close, while he took Kurt's right hand in his. "It's okay… I'm not going anywhere. We just need to let her do what she has to do, okay? We have to let her put the IV in. I'm right here, son, I'm right here…"

Kurt nodded, sniffling, tears streaking his face as he turned into his father's arm around him, burying his face in his father's shirt and crying softly. He jerked slightly with a little gasp as the needle went in, but didn't otherwise resist Tammy's efforts – not until she finished with the IV and started to wrap a soft strip of cloth around Kurt's wrist, securing a narrow metal splint to his arm.

Kurt tried to pull away then, drawing in a sharp, shuddering breath – but Burt quickly reached across the bed and caught his arm, just above his wrist, gently but firmly pinning it down to the mattress before he could dislodge the needle and do further damage to himself.

"No, kiddo, you can't do that, okay? You're gonna hurt yourself…"

"W-why… why are they… why do I have to be…?" Kurt was breathless and panicked, wide, wild eyes darting between Burt and Tammy in fearful confusion. "Why are you… t-tying my hand down? Please…"

"No, no, sweetie," Tammy assured him, her expression falling with dismay as she realized what he'd thought. "No, Kurt, I'm not tying your hand down, honey. You'll be able to move your hand when I'm done, I promise, okay? Your arm will be free to move as you want. I just can't let the _needle_ move, you see? I'm just tying this splint onto your arm to make sure that it stays straight, and the needle stays where it needs to be. Okay?"

Kurt blinked at her, still clearly not quite comprehending – but he didn't try to pull away again.

"I promise, Kurt, I'm not tying you up," Tammy repeated, and Burt looked up in surprise at the thick, hoarse sound of her voice, startled and touched to see her eyes shining with tears. "We just need to make sure this needle doesn't come out, because that would really hurt. Okay?"

Kurt looked to his father, his gaze wary and uncertain.

Burt nodded encouragingly, forcing a smile to his lips. "It's okay," he whispered. "Really, Kurt, it's all right." He paused, swallowing back the hard knot that had formed in his throat as he added in a hoarse whisper, "I promise – I'm not gonna let anybody hurt you again. All right?"

Kurt bit his lower lip, which was trembling dangerously, before finally nodding and hiding his face against his dad's shoulder again. He didn't try to pull away as Tammy cautiously resumed splinting his arm, carefully describing everything she was doing as she did it so as not to further alarm him.

Once she was done, the orderlies returned and accompanied them to the promised private room where they would wait for the doctor. And for the first time since their dinner earlier that evening – an event which seemed now to have taken place lifetimes ago – Burt and Kurt were alone.

But Burt was well aware that it wouldn't last long.

There was a heaviness in the pit of his stomach that came with the knowledge that Kurt's ordeal had not yet ended for the night.

Burt pulled the chair beside Kurt's bed as close as he could possibly get it – a feat which wasn't exactly easy considering that he had the use of only one hand to do it – and then sat down beside his son, running the fingers of his free hand through Kurt's hair in a slow, soothing motion.

"It's going to be okay, kiddo," he whispered, though Kurt seemed to have drifted off into sleep or unconsciousness, either of which might have been a blessing at this point. "It's gonna be okay." More for his own benefit than for Kurt's, Burt echoed the promise he'd made minutes earlier, blinking back the tears that stung his eyes. "I'm not gonna let anybody hurt you… not ever again."


	10. Chapter 10

Kurt was only asleep for a few minutes before he abruptly startled awake with a hoarse, panicked little cry that made Burt feel shattered, helpless against the nightmare memories that filled his son's sleep – that would likely haunt him for the rest of his life.

You let him down once… right when it mattered the most. And now, neither one of you will ever be able to forget it…

Burt carefully sat down on the edge of the bed, as close beside Kurt as he could get, cradling his head close to his chest, stroking his fingers through his son's hair and whispering meaningless reassurances, words he couldn't remember speaking the moment after they left his lips.

The quiet privacy of the room where the orderlies had left them was far more soothing than the chaos of the ER waiting room, and much to his father's relief, Kurt quickly began to calm once he realized where he was, and that Burt was there, and that he was safe.

Kurt's sobs gradually subsided, but the trembling of his form – so small and fragile in Burt's arms – didn't. Finally, Burt's words fell away as well, leaving the two of them alone with nothing but the silence of the room and the cacophony of their own thoughts.

"Wh-what… what now?" Kurt whispered at last, the hoarse rasp of his voice sounding harsh and somehow too loud in the silence. "What… what happens next?"

The edge of panic in his voice, silently, desperately pleading to be spared any further suffering, tore at Burt's heart – because he wasn't sure he _could_ spare Kurt the pain and humiliation of what was to come.

"Well," he began cautiously, his voice low and gentle, his arms around his son instinctively, protectively tightening. "They're going to need to… to do an exam, kiddo. To… to make sure you don't need… surgery or anything, you know? They'll have to check you out in order to know how to… to treat you."

Kurt turned his face into his father's shirt once more, shaking his head and crying softly. "No," he whimpered. "Please, Daddy, I don't want them to t-touch me, _please_… please d-don't let them…"

"Kurt…" Burt's heart sank, his voice breaking over his son's name – because he didn't think he could grant Kurt the mercy he was pleading for. "Son, I think… I think they _have _to…"

"No," Kurt cried. "I can't… I _can't_…"

"It's going to be all right, buddy," Burt whispered, holding Kurt's head close to his chest and brushing a kiss across the top of his head. "I promise, Kurt, it's going to be all right. They just want to make sure you're all right… we _have_ to know that you're all right, you know?"

Before Kurt could offer any response, a quick, sharp knock sounded on the door, and Kurt flinched violently against Burt, who held him closer in response, even as his gaze turned warily toward the door. The person who had knocked did not wait for a response; instead, they pushed the door open and peered around it for a moment before speaking.

"Hi. I'm Rodney, your night nurse. Okay if I come on in?"

"Yeah," Burt replied, nodding a little distractedly, a disapproving frown creasing his brow.

_You're already in, anyway, pal… what's the use of asking now?_

"How are we feeling?" Rodney asked, pushing a medical supply cart into the room ahead of him and positioning it beside Kurt's bed.

The vaguely impatient note in his voice suggested that he really wasn't all that concerned with the answer to his question – not that he was going to get an answer, anyway. Kurt did not seem inclined to acknowledge the newcomer in the slightest, his trembling hands just clinging to the soft flannel of Burt's shirt for dear life.

Rodney crossed around to the other side of the bed, checking the IV bags on the stand next to it before taking the file from the chart at the end of the bed and opening it. He frowned, annoyance clear in his pursed lips and furrowed brow, and Burt felt an irrational sense of embarrassment as he realized that it was probably because the thing was next to empty, due to his lack of having filled out any paperwork of any kind thus far.

_That's not important right now. What's important is that Kurt needs you close…_

The disapproving look on Rodney's face as he glanced at them suggested otherwise, but the way Kurt was currently hanging on to Burt's shirt so tightly, his face so buried against Burt's chest that it was as if he was trying to literally burrow inside of him to hide – suddenly, there was no doubt in Burt's mind whatsoever that his priorities were exactly as they should be.

"So, I'm going to go ahead and attach this little device here to his finger," Rodney explained, holding up a tiny little clip that was vaguely familiar to Burt from his own time spent in Lima Memorial. "It'll measure his blood oxygen level and alert us early if there's any major problems with his breathing, etcetera."

Burt frowned as the young man moved around the bed again, moving closer to Kurt. Something about Rodney's manner troubled Burt, though he couldn't quite put his finger on it. Then Rodney reached out, without any further warning, to take Kurt's arm – and Kurt flinched, a choked, pleading whimper leaving his lips as he jerked his arm away.

"No, no, don't touch me, please don't touch me," he cried, his words coming out in a shaky, breathless rush. "Daddy, d-don't let him… don't…"

"He's not gonna hurt you, Kurt," Burt whispered, his arm around Kurt squeezing gently as his free hand cradled Kurt's head, trembling fingers running soothingly through his hair. "Come on, kiddo, he just wants to help…"

Rodney took a step back, letting out a barely audible little huff of impatient breath, the arm that had reached out toward Kurt now crossed over his chest as he surveyed the situation with barely disguised frustration.

"Okay, so… this is nothing," he pointed out. "This little clip thing. It doesn't hurt. It just goes on his finger." He hesitated, an apologetic grimace on his lips as he concluded, "If we can't even get _that_ far – the exam I'm here to perform is… considerably more invasive, so… we're going to have to figure something out here."

"Could you just be a little bit patient?" Burt snapped, his arms instinctively tightening, protective and sheltering around his son's trembling body. "He's been through a lot tonight…"

"I know, and I'd really like to make sure there's no life-threatening damage from what he's been through," Rodney countered, his tone a little too slow and his smile a little too condescending to be genuinely concerned. "So if you wouldn't mind helping me out with that…"

"No," Kurt whispered, and Burt felt the vibration of the word against his chest more than he actually heard it. "Please, Dad, please don't let him…"

"It's okay," Burt assured him, his voice hushed and private before he looked up to address Rodney again. "Look, he _really_ doesn't want to do this. I know you're telling me it's what has to be done, but… after what's h-happened…" Burt hated the catch in his voice over the words, but swallowed hard, forcing himself to go on. "… I… I can't just… just take this choice away from him…"

"How old is he?" Rodney asked, a single brow raised speculatively.

Burt frowned. "Sixteen. Why?"

Rodney looked up to meet Burt's eyes, hesitating just a moment before explaining, "Then… it's not his choice to begin with. It's yours."

Burt's heart lurched at those words, and he stared down at his son's damaged, violated body on the bed in front of him, felt Kurt's head shaking back and forth against his chest. A quiet horror trickled through his veins at the very _thought_ of forcing Kurt to submit to another stranger touching him – cold, clinical hands exploring his body against his will. Tears prickled at the backs of his eyes as Kurt's hands in his shirt tightened, and he whimpered pleadingly, his desperate words barely audible.

"Please, Daddy, don't… please don't make me… _please_…"

And all at once, Burt realized what it was that had so bothered him about Rodney from the moment he'd walked through the door.

For all he'd said, not once had Rodney had the grace or compassion to actually speak to _Kurt_.

"My choice," Burt echoed, nodding slowly, as if considering. He felt Kurt flinch against him, and instinctively ran a soothing hand slowly up and down his back in silent reassurance. "Fine, then." He looked up at Rodney, his tone hardening as he concluded, "My _choice_ is to see someone else."

"Excuse me?" Rodney raised a single eyebrow, offended.

"You heard me. I'd like for Kurt to see another nurse." He considered for a moment before adding, "Preferably a woman."

"This is my wing tonight," Rodney objected. "And I never said you _had_ to make the choice one way or the other…"

"Well, I just did." Burt cut him off sharply. "Now get the hell out."

Sputtering indignantly under his breath, Rodney stalked out of the room, leaving the medical table behind. Burt felt a fresh surge of anger as the door closed much harder than was necessary behind him, and Kurt's body jerked against him with alarm.

"Shhh," he whispered, pulling Kurt closer against him. "Shhh, it's all right. I'd never do that to you, son," he promised softly, reaching one hand down to tilt Kurt's tear-stained face up to meet his eyes. "Whatever happens," he continued, taking a deep breath and momentarily hesitating over the words. "Whatever happens… it's going to be _your_ choice, yeah? Nothing you don't want."

Kurt nodded tearfully, his lower lip trembling pitifully as he tried to hide his face again – but Burt couldn't let him, not yet. He gently but firmly held Kurt up by the shoulders as he continued with carefully measured words.

"Now – we're _here_ so the doctors and nurses and all can take care of you. That's why we _came _here, Kurt. And I want you to get taken care of. Don't make any mistake about that. But… but it has to be _your_ choice, kiddo. I can't – can't force you to…" His voice broke off, and he shook his head, looking away and fighting back tears.

… can't force you to do anything, to – to go through anything else. Not now, not anymore.

_And maybe that makes me a bad father, but… so help me, I just_ can't.

A few minutes after Rodney left, there was a second knock on the door. Burt automatically tensed, bracing himself for another intrusion – but no one entered until he warily called out.

"Come in." 

The woman who entered looked to be about his age, with shoulder-length blonde hair streaked with silver and warm, dark eyes over a sad, sympathetic smile of greeting.

"Hi." She offered her hand to Burt, and he tentatively raised one hand from Kurt's back to take it. "I'm Mary. I heard you prefer to see a female nurse tonight?"

"That's right," Burt confirmed with a nod. "I'm Burt Hummel. And this is my son, Kurt."

Mary's expression softened visibly as her gaze lowered to take in the pitiful sight that Kurt made at the moment, huddled on his side on the hospital bed, tiny and trembling and apparently trying to crawl inside his father and hide. She made no effort to get between the two of them or to get Burt to back off as she crouched at the side of the bed, bringing herself to eye level with Kurt – if he'd been looking up, anyway.

"Hey," she said softly, not reaching out to touch him in any way, and the hushed, gentle tone of her voice reminded Burt of someone trying not to startle a skittish, wounded animal. "Kurt, I'm Mary." She paused for a moment, choosing her words carefully as she continued, "I know you really don't want to be here. I know you've had a terrible night – and a terrible thing has happened to you. But – _my_ job is to help you feel _better_, sweetie. And that's all I want to do."

Kurt did not reply, but Burt noticed with guarded optimism that he'd gone still against him, not trembling so much, his muffled cries dying away as he, hopefully, listened to what she was saying.

"I'm not going to touch you unless you tell me I can, okay, Kurt?" Mary continued. "I just want to talk to you for a minute. Would that be okay? Will you look up for a minute and talk to me?"

Kurt didn't move or make a sound for a long tense moment, and Burt could feel the thick, heavy weight of his fear and indecision as his fingers worked nervously in the fabric of Burt's shirt, twisting it and pressing it between them. Finally, with nerve-wracking caution, Kurt raised his head, not letting go of his father as he turned his face toward Mary. His red-rimmed eyes were still focused on the bed rather than on her, and his hair was a mess, falling into his eyes and damp with sweat and tears – but at least he wasn't trying to hide anymore.

He nodded slowly, biting his lower lip. "O-okay," he whispered, his voice a hoarse, hesitant whisper. "I th-think that'd be… that'd be all right."


	11. Chapter 11

"So – about the worst thing I could ask right now is how you're feeling," Mary observed, her tone mild and disarming. "But if I can do anything to make you feel even a little better, Kurt – that's my job. That's what I'm here for. So – what I'd like you to tell me right now is – what I can do for you. What you need from me, right now. Can you do that?"

Kurt stared down at the thin, coarse blanket that covered his legs, the fingers of one hand working nervously against the fabric, his other hand still clenched painfully tight in the much softer flannel of his father's shirt. Burt's arm around him, the warm, soft pressure of his body beside Kurt on the bed, made him feel a little safer, a little more secure – but his body was still in agony, his mind still tormented by vivid images that were barely old enough to be memories – and in spite of her kindness, he didn't know how to answer her question, what Mary or anyone else could do to help him at this point.

"I just want to go h-home," he blurted out at last – but his voice broke on the last word, and suddenly he was crying again, overwhelmed by the horrifying reality of how drastically his entire world had changed in the past few hours.

_Home is where it happened – where_ he _was, and where he – where he did…_

"Shhh, baby… you're safe now, son… it's all right…"

His father's voice was low and gruff and so, so familiar and comforting, and Kurt buried his face against his shirt again, his shoulders shaking with fresh sobs. No one said anything for a couple of minutes, and Kurt struggled to pull himself together, painfully aware that he was not the only one who'd suffered a traumatic ordeal this night, and that he was only making this so much harder on his father by falling apart like a child every other minute or so. His breath caught in his throat as he struggled to return it to a normal pace, letting it out in a shuddering sob.

"I'm sorry," he whispered. "I'm sorry, I – I'm n-not trying to…"

"It's all right," Mary assured him, her voice reflecting surprise at his apology – and somehow, that surprise was more reassuring than sympathy would have been. "Honey, you have nothing to be sorry for. It's my job to be here and take care of you, and to be honest, I'd be more worried if you _weren't_ a little bit of a mess right now, you know?"

Kurt nodded, biting his lower lip. "O-okay…"

"Now… I know you want to get home, sweetie, and I'm gonna do everything I can to make sure that happens as soon as possible," Mary continued gently. "But I'm going to need you to help me with that, all right?"

Kurt nodded again, reluctantly turning his head to face her again, though he couldn't quite bring himself to meet her eyes just yet.

"Now, I know you've already been through a lot tonight, and you probably just want to be left alone, but – you know I can't really do that, right?" Her tone was sympathetic, apologetic, but her words made Kurt's heart clench, and his stomach lurched with fear.

"I d-don't want anybody else to touch me," he whispered, hating himself for the weak, tremulous sound of his own voice. "_Please_… please don't touch me…"

"Well, ultimately, that's up to you, sweetheart," Mary assured him, and just those words alone were a tremendous comfort. "It's your decision – and I'm not going to do anything to you unless you say it's okay." She was quiet for a moment before continuing, her words cautious and measured, "But… it's also part of my job to make sure that you understand the risks of either decision. All right?"

Kurt nodded, accepting her words – because as long as she was still talking, at least she wasn't touching him, wasn't putting her hands where _his_ hands had been, looking at the torn wreckage of his body that _he_ had left behind.

"You could go home right now, and your dad could try his best to take care of your injuries on his own there, but – and this is assuming you don't need stitches, which we honestly don't know for sure yet – that would involve cleaning the injured area, applying medications, dressings… and I don't think that you really want him trying to do all that, do you?"

Kurt felt his face flush with shame at the very idea of his father looking at him _there_, touching him, awkwardly trying to apply medications and bandages and all the while trying not to think about what had caused those injuries – the agonizing creation of them that he'd _witnessed_.

_God… he's never going to forget…_ I'm _never going to forget…_

"And then," Mary continued softly, "there's the fact that a home environment is never as sterile as the environment we can create here. Your dad seems like a wonderful person, and I know he'd do his best to take care of you – but the fact is he's not a professional, and one little mistake – one time that he forgets to sterilize _anything_ could end up with you back here, not just for tonight but for a couple of weeks, with a very unpleasant infection."

Kurt swallowed hard, a knot beginning to form in his stomach as he considered the implications of her words.

"This is an awful thing to have to ask you, Kurt," Mary went on, her voice low and gentle, "but did the man who did this wear a condom?"

Kurt's heart lurched, and he flinched against his father's chest, shaking his head. "I-I don't know," he whispered. "I don't – don't think so… I'm not sure…"

"No." Burt's voice was hoarse and painfully broken above his head, and Kurt felt fresh tears rising in his eyes at the sound of it. "He didn't."

"Okay." Mary's voice was level and measured. "Then we need to check whatever – evidence was left behind in the attack to make sure that he doesn't have any STIs that he might have passed on to you. We're going to give you some retrovirals while you're here, and some to take home, to make sure that any chance of HIV infection is eliminated or at least reduced… but we need the sample to make sure you're not going to get sick…" She paused, and when she went on there was a sharp, subtly angry note to her voice. "… not to mention submitting it to the police to see if they can match it, and try to put the bastard away for this."

_STIs?_ HIV? _What did he _do_ to me?_

God… no wonder I feel so disgusting and dirty…

"Or you know… you could choose to stay for just a little while longer. Let me perform the exam. I can't promise you that it won't hurt a little, and I can't promise you that it'll be easy – but I can promise you that I'll make it go as quickly as possible, and I'll do my best not to cause you any more pain than you're already in. And if you don't want me to do it, then I can always get you someone else. However you're most comfortable."

Kurt was quiet, just struggling to take it all in. It was overwhelming, too much information, and far too personal a discussion to be having with a total stranger – and yet he knew that she was right. The risks of simply going home and trying to forget this had ever happened were just too great.

He shook his head, swallowing hard to dampen his dry, aching throat. "I w-want – I want you to do it," he whispered, hiding his face again.

"Yeah." Burt's voice was heavy with relief, and Kurt felt a fresh wave of guilt as he realized how much he'd been worrying his father with his stubborn refusal of the exam thus far. "Yeah, you're – you're the only person in this damn hospital so far who's treated him like a _person_."

Mary reached out carefully across the mattress, bringing her hand to within his line of vision, then waiting. Kurt looked up at last to meet her eyes and saw the cautious question there. He nodded slowly, and Mary completed the motion, reaching out to rest her hand over his. It was warm and soft and motherly, and made Kurt's heart ache with a completely different sense of loss.

"I'm so sorry about that," she replied, with unmistakable sincerity in her voice. "But if that's how you both feel, then I promise you – I'll be the one to do the exam. I'll talk you through it, make sure you know what's going on the whole time, and assuming that there's no surgery or stitches necessary – no one else will touch you tonight. All right? Would that make you feel a little bit safer?"

Kurt nodded, feeling a strange mixture of fear and relief – because he knew that with that simple gesture, he was agreeing to allow this further invasion, this gentle, necessary violation. Mary was kind and gentle, and far more reassuring than anyone else he'd encountered in this hospital thus far – but he still didn't want to be touched, not by anyone. At the moment, he couldn't stand the thought of any hands on him that were not his father's.

_And it doesn't matter how nice she tries to be…_ Kurt realized, his heart sinking with despair. _Here, at home,_ anywhere – _I'm never going to feel safe again…_

Kurt was strangely quiet throughout the examination. He didn't cry, and he barely made a sound, even when Burt knew that, despite Mary's best efforts, she was hurting him – but his entire body was rigid the entire time, his face never lifting from its hiding place against Burt's chest. His hands were trembling, white-knuckled, tangled in the soft fabric, and Burt could feel the flushed heat of his face even through his shirt.

Mary warned him before she touched him, every single time, telling him in detail exactly what she was doing and why; and it _did_ seem to help a little. Kurt would nod or whisper a timid, "okay", but he didn't cry out, and every flinch, every shuddered, sharp intake of breath, was only a fresh reminder of the torment that Kurt had gone through, and the fact that it was far from over.

He knew that for his son, this was just another piece of a horrific night filled with humiliation – and that knowledge broke his heart.

Kurt's eyes might have been dry throughout the entire exam, but Burt could not claim the same strength. Every time he felt Kurt's slender frame jerk against him, every time he heard a barely audible, muffled whimper against his chest, Burt felt as if he was being stabbed through the heart. He just held his boy in his arms helplessly, wishing there was something he could offer besides meaningless, soothing words and the reassurance of his embrace, to ease Kurt's pain and undo the damage that had been done.

But there was _nothing_ he could do. He _was_ helpless in the face of this – and it was more than he could stand.

When Mary was finished with the examination – to Burt's relief, a mere thirty minutes later – she administered a strong dose of painkillers to ease Kurt's suffering and help him sleep. Mercifully, the drugs knocked him out within minutes – and Burt was left alone with the heavy silence, too empty and open to the dark onslaught of his thoughts.

He took up the paperwork from the folder he'd been given at the front desk and dutifully filled it out, then stepped out into the hall and handed it off to an orderly on her way back to the lobby.

A few minutes later, the police showed up. Apparently, they'd been in the lobby since a few minutes after Burt and Kurt had arrived, but had been told that Kurt was being examined and they would have to wait until the examination was over. They seemed disappointed to find their key witness unconscious, but Burt quickly filled them in on the events of the night – using as little detail as possible for the worst parts of it, though every fractional perception of every moment was seared vividly into his mind.

The police were particularly interested in the body that Burt told them they would find on the floor of his living room. One of the officers kept talking to Burt, asking him questions about the robbery and how the murder had happened, while the other immediately stepped out of the room, talking into his handheld radio.

Great… we're gonna come home to a house that's nothing more than a taped off crime scene…

"If there's someplace else you can stay tonight – maybe a hotel," one of the officers suggested apologetically, "If money's an issue, the department can put you up for the night…"

"I – I don't plan to go anywhere," Burt assured them, turning his gaze toward his, at last, peacefully sleeping son. "I'll be here as long as he is."

"Good." The officer nodded. "It'll take the crime scene crew until tomorrow to go through the place and collect evidence, but you should be okay to stay at home again by tomorrow night."

"Thank you." Burt's reply was automatic, emotionless.

"We're obviously going to need to speak with your son as well," the officer added hesitantly, his tone regretful and sympathetic. "That can wait until he's feeling a little better – but I'm afraid we can't wait long, Mr. Hummel. If he's released from the hospital tomorrow, we'd really appreciate your bringing him by on the way home, before you settle in…"

A shudder of apprehension went through Burt, as he suddenly wondered whether or not it would be possible to "settle in" at all, to the house where Kurt had been brutally raped and violated.

Burt told the officers where to find Kurt's clothes inside, and they finally left a little past midnight. Burt settled down on the sofa on the other side of the room, resigned to the fact that he would be spending at least one night there, and possibly more.

It was nearly three in the morning before he finally dozed off to a fitful, restless sleep.

"Burt? Burt, honey, wake up!"

The warm, familiar voice drew Burt out of his blessedly dreamless sleep, and he sat up on the sofa, blinking around for a moment, disoriented. At last his vision came into focus on Carole's worried face inches from his own.

"Burt?" she repeated, her eyes wide and fearful as a gentle hand rose to cup his cheek. "Why is Kurt here, honey? What happened to you two?"

As awareness slowly drifted back to Burt's mind, it hit him with the force of a freight train that in all the chaos, in all the panicked urgency to get his son to help as quickly as possible, and then to make sure that he was all right – Burt had completely, entirely _forgotten_ Carole.

The woman he'd married, her son that was becoming like his own, had completely slipped his mind, and he'd gone back to the way he'd been so used to seeing the world before he'd met Carole – him and Kurt, the center of each other's universe – the only thing that mattered in the world.

"Neither of you were answering your phones," Carole explained, sinking down on the couch beside him and reaching out to clasp his hand. "So Finn and I – we were… worried."

Burt's guilt intensified with the certain knowledge of what she didn't have to say – that the reason they'd been worried was his heart.

_She spent that four-hour drive scared to death that I was dead or dying – and I didn't so much as remember she_ existed…

"So we decided to come on home, and – and when we got to the house, the police were there." The fear of that moment was still lingering in Carole's eyes, and Burt instinctively, reassuringly squeezed her hand. "They told us that _Kurt_ had been admitted to the hospital, but – but they wouldn't tell us anything else."

"I'm sorry, I just – it all happened so fast, and… and I didn't… didn't _think_…"

Carole's gaze drifted toward the bed, and Burt's followed hers, surprised – though he supposed in the back of his mind that he shouldn't have been – to see Finn sitting in the chair he'd vacated beside Kurt's bed. He was staring down at the smaller boy – his little brother – with wide eyes and a worried, fearful frown. As Burt watched, Finn reached out toward Kurt's still, pale arm – and before he knew it, without any conscious thought or intent, Burt was up and across the room, catching Finn's hand and pulling it away before he could make contact.

"Don't touch him!" he barked.

Finn flinched, pulling his hand away and staring at Burt through wide eyes – and Burt flinched too when he felt Carole's hand on his arm.

"I – I wasn't going to – to _hurt _him or anything…" Finn insisted, his expression defensive and bewildered, and a little wounded.

"Burt? Honey, what – what is it?"

"He just – I'm sorry, he just…" Burt felt the pressure of the entire night building up inside him, and suddenly he was in tears, and not the silent ones he'd shed during Kurt's exam – the kind that shook his body with sobs and made him feel as if he was shattering apart inside. "He doesn't want… doesn't want anyone to touch him…"

He sank down into the chair from which Finn had just risen, covering his face with his hands – and Carole moved Finn away, crouching down in front of him and taking one of his hands in both of hers. Her voice was hushed with a quiet sense of rising horrified realization as she spoke to him with gentle caution, as if afraid to spook him.

"Burt – Burt, honey," she whispered, searching his face with wide, worried eyes, touched with the beginnings of unwelcome understanding. "Tell me what happened to Kurt."


	12. Chapter 12

He couldn't see.

Nothing but darkness surrounded him, black and empty – and he couldn't seem to open his eyes, couldn't tell where he was or how much time had passed or whether any had passed at all.

Indeed, it seemed that no time had passed, after all – because although he couldn't see, Kurt could definitely _feel_.

Cruel, grasping hands biting into his hips, sharp nails digging into his skin and holding him in place, preventing his weak, futile attempts at escape – the hot, damp rush of breath in his ear as a harsh, gloating voice whispered vicious words against the back of his neck, threats and degradations, but worst of all were the softly sneered pseudo-compliments, a mockery of praise that made Kurt feel hot with shame, sick with humiliation.

So pretty… such a good, pretty little slut…

_You can't be a virgin… must have lied… too good a fuck for that, aren't you?_

_Daddy must be so_ proud…

"No!" Kurt sobbed out, though he barely recognized the hoarse, weak rasp that left his dry, burning lips. "No, stop… _stop_… please… please… please d-don't let him…"

He flinched away from the soft warmth of hands coming to rest on his arm and on his face, brushing back the hair across his forehead. He frowned, distressed, struggling to open his eyes, but his eyelids felt too heavy to allow it.

But after a moment, he realized that the touch was gentle and cautious, and nothing even close to resembling the harsh, violent hands that filled his nightmares. But the hand caressing, feather-light and so gentle against his face, was definitely not his father's hand, either.

Soft and warm and feminine, like the soothing, hushed voice that spoke to him from somewhere close, but not _too _close, not right up in his face like the vicious whisper that filled his dreams. Reassuring and familiar, like something that had once been so ordinary, a part of his every day, but now… now…

It can't be… it's not… not possible…

… _but… this is a dream, right? This_ can't _be real…_ none _of this can be real, so… so if it is, then… then maybe she's… maybe she's here…_

His heart aching with desperate longing, Kurt turned unconsciously into the cool, gentle fingers that brushed against his brow, a hesitant, hoarse whisper falling from his lips.

"_M-Mama_?"

Carole froze, something clenching tight in her chest at the single, heartbreakingly hopeful word that Kurt had just whispered. She felt an inexplicable sense of guilt, and a deep ache of regret that she wasn't, couldn't be who Kurt, in his drugged, disoriented state, had mistaken her to be.

Who he _needed_ her to be.

"No," she murmured, her eyes burning with the tears that slipped down her cheeks as she took his hand in hers. "No, sweetheart… it's Carole. But… I'm here, Kurt, and… and you're safe, and everything's going to be all right…"

Kurt's frown deepened for a moment, as if he was struggling to comprehend the meaning of her words, before he blinked a couple of times, his eyes squinting shut against the muted sunlight that was filtered through the half-drawn blinds. His small, slender hand tightened around hers for a moment as he shifted restlessly on the bed, then finally opened his eyes, his gaze unfocused and a little lost until it finally settled on her. He swallowed, wincing as if it was difficult or painful, before speaking again, though this time his voice was a little more steady, more present.

"Dad?"

The word was a question, not a soft, hopeful plea like the _other_ word – the word that still rang like an accusation in Carole's mind – had been.

"I finally talked him into going to get something to eat and take a little nap, after – after the doctor said they'd rather you stayed another night."

She grimaced, immediately regretting her words as Kurt's eyes widened slightly, and his lips parted in automatic protest as he started to shake his head. There _had_ to have been a better way to break _that_ news to him, but it was too late now.

"Sweetie, they just want to wait for all of the test results to come back first – make sure you don't have any internal injuries that might show up later, or need any more treatment." Carole gently squeezed his hand, encouraged by the fact that he didn't take advantage of her pause to voice his protest. "It's just one more night, Kurt. And your dad will be here with you tonight. That's the only reason he agreed to go home for a little while now."

Kurt wouldn't look at her – hadn't looked at her once since he'd awakened – just stared down at the blanket that covered him, his lips parted but silent, as if he still didn't want to accept the idea, but knew that he had no valid argument to offer. Finally, his shoulders fell in defeat, and he nodded, closing his eyes.

"Okay," he whispered. "I just – I'm glad he's getting some rest, you know? I mean – he was there, too. It's not like it's just – all about me, I get that, and – and he's going to hurt his heart if he doesn't get some rest and eat right and – and-" Kurt abruptly looked up, his eyes wide and panicked with sudden realization. "Oh my God, Carole – they checked him out, right? They made sure he's okay? I mean – that guy hit him a lot, and – and he was so upset, and – they examined him, right? _Right_?"

"Yes, of course they did, sweetie," Carole hurried to reassure him, dismayed at his panicked reaction. "He's fine. He's – a little bruised up, but he's all right. His _heart_ is all right, Kurt, I promise."

Even as the words left her lips, Carole cringed inwardly, hoping that Kurt wouldn't notice her unfortunate choice of words – which in reality couldn't have been farther from the truth.

She'd never seen Burt Hummel so shattered as he'd been early that morning, when she'd held him in her arms and he'd poured out the horrific story of what he and Kurt had been through the previous night.

"Would you like to sit up, Kurt?" Carole offered, reaching for the button on the side of the bed, but not pushing it yet.

Kurt bit his lower lip, hesitant, and Carole felt sick at the reminder of the physical damage that had been done to him – but after a moment, Kurt nodded uncertainly. "Just – just a little, please."

Carole carefully raised the bed a little, watching Kurt's expression for any sign of pain, and stopping, relieved when he held up his free hand slightly. The drugs he had been given were almost certainly muting any pain he might have felt, but that didn't mean he wouldn't still feel it later if he pushed himself too far now.

Kurt was silent for a long moment, just looking around the room and gaining his bearings for a few moments, and Carole was suddenly, deeply aware of her own inadequacy. Despite all the effort she'd had to go to, to convince Burt to leave even for a little while, she found herself suddenly, selfishly wishing that he'd stayed.

"He doesn't need to be dealing with this," Kurt continued, and Carole looked up, startled. It was almost as if he'd been reading her thoughts. But he wasn't even looking at her, his gaze was distant and worried as he stared off toward the closed door to his hospital room. "This is too much. The stress – it's too much stress on his heart. If I'd just – I mean, I wish I could have…"

"_Kurt_." Carole's voice was gentle but firm as she reached out to touch his face and focus his attention back toward her. She dropped her hand with an apologetic wince when the boy flinched away from the unexpected touch. Still, she thought it better to let it pass and to go on with what she'd intended to say. "Sweetheart, you don't need to worry about taking care of your dad. It's – it's our job to take care of _you_, okay?"

"But – but he doesn't take care of _himself_, and – and he's not really well yet, and this is going to be so hard for him…" Kurt's lower lip was trembling dangerously, his words growing faster and tumbling over each other, his eyes welling with tears. "If he just hadn't been home, or – or hadn't had to – to _see_…"

"Kurt – Kurt, no!"

As much as she hated the thought of the man she loved going through the nightmare of the previous night, Carole was horrified by the very thought of how much worse things might have ended had Burt not been at home when the robbery took place. Burt had told her about the rapist's threat to take Kurt with him, and she shuddered to think that, had Kurt been alone, he might have been taken away, and they might never have seen him again.

But her mind was quickly drawn from that disturbing line of thought – because Kurt's trembling, halting words had trailed off, and he was quietly breaking down. His shoulders shook with sobs, and he raised his free hand to cover his eyes, shaking his head.

"I-I'm sorry," he choked out. "I'm sorry, I – I sh-shouldn't… shouldn't be…"

Forgetting her previous hesitance, Carole followed sheer instinct as she rose from her chair beside Kurt's bed and sat down on the edge of the bed instead, reaching out to pull him gently into her arms. She was relieved when instead of pulling away or stiffening in her embrace, Kurt fairly melted into it, lowering his face against her shoulder and crying softly. The single arm he wrapped around her felt so small, so thin and weak, and Carole suddenly felt a tremendous desire to protect and shelter this broken, devastated child that was not her own, but might as well have been at this point.

"You shouldn't be sorry for _anything_," she assured him in a hushed but firm voice, cupping the back of his head with one hand. "Kurt, none of this is your fault. You did everything right, sweetheart…"

"N-no I didn't," Kurt whispered, raising his head just a little, but not looking at her, his eyes red and wet with tears, yet still shining with a bitter anger that sent a little chill down Carole's spine – not because he was angry, but because of where that anger seemed to be directed. "I was so _stupid_. If I hadn't acted like such a – a ridiculously pathetic _baby_ – so s-scared and – and helpless – then maybe Dad would have fought the other guy while they were going to the bank. Maybe he could have called the police, and – and maybe this wouldn't have – none of this would have – h-happened…" Kurt's words were choked, breaking, and he lowered his face again. "But I was so freakin' useless, and he had to protect me, and he couldn't fight back because he had to worry about _me_, and – and now…"

"Kurt – Kurt, look at me," Carole instructed softly, waiting until he reluctantly met her gaze to go on. "It doesn't matter what you might have done, anything you think you might have done to look less – less scared, or – or anything. Your father would not have done _anything differently_, Kurt. You cannot think for one second that he would ever have done anything to endanger your life – and in this case, that meant doing exactly what he was told. And he would have done that, no matter _what_ you did. Okay? Your father loves you more than _anything,_ and he would never have done anything that might have put you at risk."

Kurt didn't argue, but he didn't seem all that comforted by her words, and once again Carole found herself feeling intensely inadequate.

"All you need to worry about right now, Kurt," she continued softly, "all you need to think about – is getting better. Okay? It's okay, for once in your life, to think about nothing more than what _you_ need."

A soft, broken sob escaped Kurt's lips, and it tore at Carole's heart. She instinctively tightened her embrace around him, brushing a kiss against his temple.

"What, sweetheart?" she murmured, her voice hushed and gentle. "What can I do? What do you want?"

Kurt was trembling violently, shaking his head against her shoulder as if at a loss, utterly helpless to find an answer – until he did.

"My _mom_…"

The answer was so quiet, so breathless and broken, that Carole almost didn't hear it – but when she realized what he'd said, her heart clenched painfully in her chest, and she froze completely for a moment before pulling away. She swallowed hard, not quite meeting Kurt's eyes, as she started to get up and return to her seat.

_What was I thinking, anyway? So selfish, to try to just make_ myself _feel better by holding him, comforting him, acting as if he's mine – but he's not. And what he needs right now, you can never be…_

"No," Kurt whimpered, reaching out abruptly and pulling her back, his hands shaking as they grasped desperately at her waist, clinging to her to keep her from withdrawing. "Don't, I – I didn't mean – d-don't go…"

Carole's heart ached with sudden, sorrowful understanding, and she put her arms around Kurt again and held him close, murmuring soothing, shushing sounds against his hair.

"You _did_ mean it, Kurt, and that's okay," she assured him. "_Of course_ you want her – and I'm so sorry that she can't be here with you, and so sorry that I can't give you what you need right now. But – I'll be _here_, Kurt – right here with you and your dad, through whatever happens now. Whatever you need, sweetheart – I'll do my best to see that you get it."


	13. Chapter 13

Burt knocked softly on the door to Kurt's hospital room before edging it open just a little.

"Just me," he announced, hushing his voice when he noticed that Kurt was, once again, asleep.

Between the pain medication he was on, and the trauma he'd been through, Burt was pretty sure he'd slept more in the past 48 hours than he had in the previous week.

Burt's mind went back to when Kurt was just three years old, and had burned his hand on his grandmother's old-fashioned iron stove. He'd cried and cried for about five minutes in his mother's arms, before suddenly succumbing to an almost instantaneous sleep. Burt and Elizabeth had both been alarmed, but the doctor at the emergency room had informed them that it was a young child's normal response to trauma – an attempt to just willingly relinquish consciousness, and sleep until it went away.

But Burt was sick with grief at the knowledge that _this_ wouldn't be _going__away_ any time soon.

Carole was sitting at Kurt's bedside, her hand loosely clasping Kurt's, her thumb running slowly back and forth as she stared at him through sad, troubled eyes. At Burt's entrance, she looked up with a too-bright smile, a forced cheer in her voice.

"Hey, honey. Did you get some rest?"

Burt didn't answer her question as he approached her, and she rose to her feet, letting go of Kurt's hand to put her arms around him and draw him close. Burt closed his eyes, breathing in the sweet floral fragrance of her shampoo as he buried his face in her neck and took comfort in the soft, familiar pressure of her body against his. She felt safe and warm and stable – like everything good and normal in his life that had been so abruptly ripped away the previous night.

And suddenly, he was _so,__so__exhausted_, and he regretted not even trying to sleep during the past few hours he'd spent at home.

Couldn't sleep… there was too much to do…

"Burt, you need to rest," Carole gently admonished him, pulling back to give him a look of concerned affection. "You should go home and sleep for a couple of hours, honey. You're no good to him if you're falling asleep on your feet."

"I can't sleep anyway," Burt muttered, maneuvering her to the side a little so that he could look at his son. "And I've already been away too long."

"He's all right, sweetheart," Carole assured him. "He's just been sleeping, mostly. He woke up for a little while, and we talked, but – mostly he's just slept. And that's what _you_ should have been doing. You know, last night wasn't exactly _easy_on _you_, either." She was quiet for a moment, studying his face before she admitted quietly, "I'm worried about you."

"I'm sorry," Burt offered, lowering his gaze. "I just – I can't even begin to think about – about sleep, or – or anything but Kurt right now…"

Carole reached down to take his hand in hers, squeezing it gently, and he fell silent, looking up again to meet her eyes ruefully. She offered him a soft smile, shaking her head slowly.

"Don't ever apologize for that," she said gently. "You _need_ to focus on Kurt right now. It's instinct – _deeper_ than instinct, really. The two of you have a bond that – that amazes me, Burt. And seeing that – that capacity for love that you have – that's the biggest part of why I fell in love with you."

Burt looked away again, feeling an inexplicable sense of shame at her words.

"You're a good man," Carole persisted softly. "And a good _father_."

Burt closed his eyes, swallowing hard and fighting not to give in to the burning ache in his chest, the hot tears forming in his eyes. He pictured his son, his _baby_, on his knees on their living room floor, being violated by a stranger's gun and by his sadistic, threatening words, all the while _begging_with his eyes for Burt to _help__him_, to make it _stop_ – while Burt did nothing but simply stay where he was and will his child to submit to the violation.

"Burt." Carole's voice was firm, and when he forced himself to meet her gaze, her expression was filled with conviction. "You _are_."

He lowered his head onto her shoulder again, and though he didn't feel he deserved it, allowed himself to take comfort in the touch of her hand on his back, running up and down in a rhythmic, soothing motion.

"You did everything you could," she whispered. "You did everything that was possible to keep the two of you _alive_, and you both _are_ alive, and that's what matters, honey. That's all that matters in the end."

Burt wasn't so sure that she was right – but he hugged her tighter, clearing his throat and trying not to sound as close to tears as he felt.

"I love you," he told her almost fiercely. "I don't know what I'd do without you, Carole…"

"Shhh," she soothed him, turning her face to kiss his cheek without letting go of him. "I love you, too, Burt Hummel. And that's just what I'm going to keep on doing. We're going to get through this, honey. You just keep on taking care of that precious boy of yours – you focus on making sure he gets through this – and while you're doing that, _I__'__ll_ be taking care of _you_." She was quiet for a moment before adding in a whisper, "You just have to _let_me."

Burt nodded against her shoulder, not trusting himself to speak, or even look into her eyes, without completely betraying himself.

"Kurt will probably sleep most of the night, he's so drugged up," Carole offered. "So why don't you lie down on that couch right there and try to get some sleep? I've got to go for a little while."

"Where are you going?" Burt asked as she reluctantly withdrew from his arms.

She gave him a sad sort of smile as she moved toward the door. "There's some things I have to take care of at home."

The next morning, Kurt was finally allowed to leave the hospital.

The drive home was unbearably awkward. The entire family had come along to see him home, and they were all trying way too hard to make everything seem normal and happy and cheerful. Carole was all warm smiles and constant questions about whether or not he was warm enough or if the music was okay or if the roast in the oven at home was okay with him for lunch.

Finn didn't know anything specific about what had happened, except that there had been a home invasion, and for whatever reason, the robbers had beaten the hell out of Kurt. Kurt didn't want him to know any more than that, and Burt and Carole had respected that. During the drive, Finn kept trying to make awkward conversation about school and New Directions and football and just anything he could think of that wasn't what little he knew of what had happened to his stepfather and stepbrother.

Kurt just didn't have the energy to even try.

When they got home, Burt helped Kurt out of the car, supporting him until he'd regained his balance. The shift from hospital grade pain medication to the regular prescription stuff wasn't particularly easy, forcing him to feel pain that had been mercifully muted during his hospital stay. He felt stiff and sore, and a sharp pain shot up his spine every time he moved wrong. He felt pathetically weak and silly, having to depend on his father for such a simple thing as making it up the front walk, but it couldn't be helped.

Kurt froze for a moment in the front doorway, his stomach lurching at the mental image that filled his mind, of the last time he'd been in their living room.

_God,__how__can__I__do__this?__How__can__I__walk__back__in__there,__how__can__I_ live _here,__after__ – __after__what__happened?_

His palms were damp, his heart racing, but Kurt forced himself to move over the threshold and into the living room, swallowing back the sick feeling in the back of his throat. As soon as he allowed himself to take in his surroundings, however, his eyes widened with surprise.

The living room had been completely rearranged in his absence.

The sofa on which he'd been so brutally violated had been removed entirely, and the two armchairs had been moved to take its place, the coffee table positioned in front of them. The lamps and potted plants and the entertainment center and everything had been repositioned so as to provide the illusion of a completely different room altogether.

"What do you think?" Carole asked, a hopeful note in her anxious voice. "I know I don't have your artistic flair for this sort of thing, but it looks all right, doesn't it?"

Kurt barely heard her words, as he found himself staring at the armchair on the right, seeing not the chair, but the dark stain he knew was hidden on the carpet beneath it. His stomach roiled dangerously again, and he took a deep breath, trying to keep his nausea at bay. When he finally managed to find his voice, the only observation that he could seem to make was the most obvious, inane one possible.

"We don't have a couch anymore."

"We'll get a new one," Burt replied, his voice low and gruff as he helped Kurt to cross the room and sit down in the left armchair.

Burt saw where Kurt's eyes were drawn, despite the drastic rearrangement he and Carole and Finn had pulled off in the living room. He knew what his son had to be envisioning, because the same hellish images wouldn't leave his own mind, either.

He had come home the previous afternoon, when he was supposed to be sleeping, and instead had wrestled with the tainted sofa until he'd managed to get it out of the house and into the back yard. Then, he'd taken the sledgehammer he kept in the garage and smashed the thing to pieces. The burning barrel behind the garage had then reduced the offending piece of furniture to charred bits of wood and ash.

He remembered how he'd kept on swinging at the hateful thing until long after the pieces were small enough for burning. He remembered the way the smoke had stung his eyes until they watered and burned, and how they wouldn't stop watering for so long, even after he'd gone inside to shower off the smoke that still seemed to choke him until he couldn't breathe, even as the hot water poured down over him, mingling with the tears that streaked his face.

The fire had consumed the physical reminder that he knew neither he or Kurt could have lived with – but it had done nothing to erase the vivid memory.

As they sat down at the table to eat the lunch that Carole had carefully prepared, Burt reached into his pocket and took out the homecoming gift he'd bought for his son – a new cell phone, a couple of steps above the one that had been stolen – holding it out across the table until Kurt took it, looking up at him with mild surprise.

"The number's the same," Burt offered. "So your friends will be able to reach you. I got most of the numbers you'll need from Finn's phone, and mine, and any you don't have, you can get later. It's – it's the kind you wanted, right?"

"Thank you." Kurt's voice was quiet, too calm and unsettlingly formal as he nodded, offering a brittle, forced smile. He seemed to be going through the motions, not really here at all – but Burt knew he would have to let Kurt recover in his own time, in his own way. "It's perfect."

After lunch, Kurt took his new phone down to his bedroom, closing the door behind him and breathing a sigh of relief as he shut out not only his family, but the unintentionally oppressive weight of their worry and concerned expectations. He sat down carefully on the edge of his bed, wincing with pain as he slowly, painstakingly managed to lie down.

He had eleven new voicemails, and more than twenty text messages.

He felt a little sick at the thought of facing his friends at all, knowing that they didn't have any idea what had happened. The person they would expect him to be felt like a distant memory, and he wasn't sure he could keep up the façade for long enough to fool them – at least, not Mercedes. Probably not Rachel.

Not Blaine.

Kurt shuddered a little, trying not to think about Blaine as he listened to the voicemails. There were four from Mercedes, the first sounding mildly irritated as she reminded him that he'd said they would hang out while he was home, but no one had been at his house any of the several times that she'd stopped by. The second sounded a little more upset, and the last two were openly worried.

There were a half dozen or so messages from Carole and Finn from the night of the attack, asking if everything was okay, and for him to please call when he got the message, just to let them know that he and Burt were all right, so they could stop worrying.

There was one message from Blaine.

"_Hey,__call__me__okay?__"_

He sounded anxious and a little uncomfortable, a forced lightness in his tone that Kurt supposed was due to the fact that they didn't actually do much calling at this point. They texted a lot, and hung out constantly at Dalton, but rarely talked on the phone. For Blaine to actually call him, Kurt figured that he must have tried to text him multiple times beforehand.

"You're not answering your texts, and I just – well, let me know if everything's okay, all right?"

There was a pause in Blaine's words before he went on, hesitant.

"_Did__I__ –_ do _something?__"_

Kurt erased the message, unable to bear to listen to the rest of it. Blaine sounded so anxious, his voice carrying that nervous uncertainty that Kurt usually felt with him – so characteristic of the innocent, stomach-butterflies sort of flirtation they'd been engaging in over the past few weeks – and the thought of how Blaine would react if he found out what had happened to Kurt during what was supposed to nothing more than an ordinary weekend home made Kurt feel violently ill.

He glanced through his texts, noting ordinary short messages from his friends, wanting to get together while he was home – Tina, Brittany, Mercedes, Rachel.

And then there were the ones from Blaine.

U make it home all rite?

A couple of hours later, it was followed by another one.

_Guess__ur__having__2__much__fun__2__worry__about__me,__huh?__;)_

Several hours after that one, the next message was simple.

Kurt? U ok?

There were several others after that, increasingly worried in tone, and Kurt couldn't really blame Blaine for worrying. After all, these days they rarely went an hour without texting each other _something,_ even if it was just some random interesting thing they'd seen, or some teasing observation.

For Kurt to go two whole days without contacting Blaine at all had to be more than a little unsettling.

Kurt set his phone down on the bedside table – but just as he did, it started to ring.

Kurt looked at the screen, and his heart clenched at the familiar number scrolling across it.

Blaine…

His heart raced as he debated whether or not to answer it, feeling sick to his stomach. A part of him missed Blaine, wanted to talk to him, to reassure him that everything was okay, but…

… everything _wasn__'__t_okay.

Everything might never be okay again.

_What__would__I__say?_ Kurt wondered, feeling at a total loss as he stared helplessly at the flashing screen. _How__could__I__explain__being__so__completely__unavailable__all__weekend?__What__would__Blaine__think__if__he__knew?_

He imagined Blaine's happy, excited voice if he answered, pictured the expression of relief, the warm smile that would be on his face – and it just hurt too much. He didn't want to think about crushing that warmth and happiness with the cold, bitter truth of what had happened – and he couldn't imagine faking it well enough to convince Blaine that everything was okay.

And he didn't _want_ to.

Swallowing hard, Kurt set the phone to silent and then set it back down on the night stand without answering it. Carefully, he turned onto his other side, away from it, closed his eyes, and tried to sleep.


	14. Chapter 14

It was a common assumption among the entire Hudson-Hummel household that Kurt would not be going to school on Monday – but Burt was painfully aware that the topic of school was something that would have to be discussed before long.

Burt waited until Carole had left for work before addressing the issue with Kurt, who was still sitting at the table, picking listlessly at the plate of what should have been very tempting food in front of him. Finn was still there too, but only because he was still polishing off his third plate. Kurt hadn't had much of an appetite since he'd come home – but Carole kept trying to coax it out of him, as if it was the only thing she could think of to try to help.

Burt knew better than to think that Kurt would eat any more than the couple of bites he'd taken for Carole's benefit – but he still sat there politely pretending to try. Carole had spent too much time on the meal, carefully preparing several of Kurt's favorite foods, for him to ask to be excused – at least while she was there to see him do it.

"Dad, I – I don't think I'm very hungry," he admitted before the door had even closed behind Carole.

"That's fine, kiddo," Burt assured him. "But don't go anywhere just yet. I wanted to talk to you."

Burt hated the way Kurt flinched at the words, his gaze darting uneasily toward Finn for a moment before he focused down on his untouched breakfast, his fork tracing streaks of dark maple syrup across the lines of the thick Belgian waffle on his plate. He nodded once, slowly, visibly steeling himself for an uncomfortable conversation. Burt pressed forward anyway, determined to deal with the issue now.

"You know – you don't have to go back to school until you feel ready. Okay? We can even – we can do homeschooling if you want. You know, correspondence courses or something. Whatever you need, Kurt."

Kurt swallowed hard, relaxing a little in his seat, and Burt found himself wondering what exactly Kurt had thought they were going to talk about. "I – I don't want to be homeschooled," he replied without any hesitation.

And Burt immediately felt a twinge of guilt for the foolish suggestion. _Of course_ Kurt didn't want to be homeschooled.

Right now, he didn't want to be _home_.

"Okay. That's fine," Burt quickly conceded.

"I don't want to wait too long. I don't want to get behind, but I – I don't think I want to go back to Dalton, either, though," Kurt added hesitantly, glancing anxiously up at his dad. "I mean – I don't think I want to be – that far from – from Lima."

Burt's heart ached, because it was perfectly clear to him what Kurt was trying to say. He hadn't said it aloud, probably for fear of how weak and childish it might sound to Finn's ears, but Burt knew what he really meant.

"_I don't want to be that far from _you_."_

And he felt guilty for the intense level of temptation he felt to immediately agree to that request, for his own selfish reasons – because he didn't want Kurt to be that far from him, either.

"I – I want to try going back to McKinley," Kurt continued.

Burt hesitated, warring between his own desire for his son to be closer, at home all the time again – and the continued threat he knew would still be an issue at McKinley.

"What about that Karofsky kid?" He frowned. "He still goes there, and nothing ever happened to him for what he said..."

"Yes, but – it's out in the open now," Kurt pointed out quietly, still staring at his fork. "He knows he'll be expelled if he touches me."

Burt nodded slowly. Kurt had a point, but he still didn't like the idea of Kurt walking the same halls as the brutish bully who'd threatened his life – the much larger boy who could do a lot of damage if he wanted to, to Burt's fragile, traumatized son, who was so much more vulnerable now than he'd ever been when he'd attended McKinley before.

Burt was more aware than ever of just how easily Kurt could be damaged by someone who really wanted to hurt him.

"I have to know that you're safe, Kurt," Burt pointed out. "I can't send you back there without being sure that that kid can't come after you. " He sighed, shaking his head and taking another bite of his own breakfast. "If I have to hire a bodyguard to walk through the halls with you every day, I will…"

"You won't have to."

Burt looked up, a little startled by Finn's sudden, certain interjection into the conversation. The boy was looking at his stepfather with an uncharacteristically solemn, intent expression on his face. He glanced over at Kurt, who was staring at him with a single eyebrow raised, as if not sure what to expect from his stepbrother. Finn swallowed hard, returning his level gaze to meet Burt's.

"I promise, Burt. I won't let anything happen to him."

Burt studied Finn's face, and knew beyond any doubt in that moment that he meant every word. He had let Kurt down the first time, though he hadn't had any idea of the extent of the torment he'd been facing every day – but Finn wasn't going to let him down again. Burt turned toward Kurt, noting the almost imperceptible fall of his shoulders, the subtle relaxing of relief in his carriage as he sat back a little in his seat, finally allowing his hand to fall to rest on the table.

Burt's heart ached as he took in the dark bruises that marred Kurt's usually flawless skin, the shadows under his eyes that betrayed how little he'd actually been sleeping while holed away in the lonely quiet of his room. He thought of the painful limp with which Kurt moved around the house, stiff and skittish, shying away from every touch, his wide, expressive eyes haunted and fearful.

In that moment, all he wanted was to take his boy in his arms and hold him close, and never let him out of his sight again.

"Okay," he agreed quietly with a nod. "It's settled, then. Take the week. I'll take care of the transfer, and you can go back to McKinley next Monday."

Kurt was surprised by how touched – and relieved – he felt by Finn's heart-felt offer of protection. It really _did _make him feel safer – not that Karofsky's desperate, terrified attempts at intimidation seemed even half as scary as they had a few days earlier, before Kurt had learned what it felt like to face a _real _death threat – to face such unspeakable brutality as he'd faced in the one place he'd thought he could feel safe.

He felt a twinge of loss as he thought again of Blaine – and not only Blaine, but all of the polite, privileged boys with whom he'd formed shallow, surface friendships at Dalton. He imagined their reactions if they knew – shock and horrified outrage, and a kind of sympathy that didn't go deep enough to allow them to really be touched by what had happened to him – to really _feel _it, at all.

Maybe that was unfair. Maybe he was wrong about them.

Kurt couldn't bring himself to care.

Before he knew he was going to say it, he'd asked to go back to McKinley – and once he said it, he realized how much he really wanted it. Yeah, Karofsky made him a little nervous, but he couldn't imagine being so far away from his dad right now, so soon after what had happened.

_What if something happened while you were gone? What if the guy comes back, and you're two hours away at Dalton, and something happens to Dad, and you can't get back in time…?_

Kurt shuddered, trying to put the thoughts out of his mind, taking out his phone to serve as a distraction, as he made his way back down to his room, for once leaving his dad and Finn to clean up the breakfast dishes.

He hadn't yet responded to any of the calls or messages – which thankfully seemed to have stopped coming with such intensity, now that the new school week had started. All of his friends at McKinley would assume that he was back at Dalton, and while they'd probably be a little pissed at him for ignoring them all weekend, they'd more or less forget about him for a while and leave him alone.

Blaine, on the other hand, just had more cause to worry than ever.

And Blaine wasn't like the other boys at Dalton. Blaine could relate all too well to what Kurt had gone through at McKinley. He'd listened with an openness and understanding that made Kurt feel, for the first time in what had been a torturously lonely, frightening school year, like he was _not alone._

The problem was – bullies and threats were about as far as Blaine's experience went with the horror that the world had to offer.

Kurt tried to imagine telling Blaine what had happened, but he could never get past the look of horror and pain on Blaine's face, and the agonizing realization that this was something Blaine could _never_ understand – something that _no one_ else could understand – and that once again, Kurt Hummel was totally, absolutely _alone_.

There were two text messages from Blaine already that morning, asking where he was and whether or not he was okay. Kurt felt sick when he tried to think about what to do about Blaine – what to tell him, how to say goodbye when he wasn't going back to Dalton, whether he should say goodbye at all – so he stopped thinking about it, trying again, uselessly, to sleep.

It was impossible when every time he closed his eyes, the same waking nightmare played out before them.

Finn had been sent to school with strict instructions from Kurt – and Burt – and his mother – not to say anything about what had happened to anyone. Kurt had insisted that he simply pretend that Kurt was back at Dalton. Neither Burt nor his mother had told him to _lie_, per se, but they made it clear that the story of the break in was Kurt's to tell if he so chose, and no one else's.

Finn really didn't get what the big deal was.

Well, _that_ wasn't true, exactly.

Kurt had apparently come very close to death during the course of said break in. His injuries had required two nights in the hospital to treat – and Finn still hadn't managed to figure out why that might be. His face was a little bruised up, and he seemed pretty sore, probably from getting kicked around and punched and stuff like Burt said had happened when Kurt talked back to them – and how cool was _that_, anyway? But there didn't seem to be any obvious injury that would have required hospitalization.

_Maybe he just got hit in the head too hard. I don't know. _

_All I know is, if it was_ me _who'd survived a robbery – me who'd had the guts to mouth off to the guys until they had to shut me up with their fists – I'd be telling the story to everybody who'd listen. _

_I bet Rachel'd think it's hot. I bet _all_ the girls would think it's hot. I just don't get why he wants to keep it a secret…_

_Oh. _

_I wonder if gay guys think stuff like that is hot?_

Of course, what none of his family had counted on was the fact that Lima was a ridiculously small town – and the Hudson-Hummel home had been surrounded by police tape for nearly 24 hours. Finn didn't read the newspaper, but apparently the story had been on the front page of the Lima Press that morning – and nearly everyone's parents had been talking about it.

By the time Finn got through homeroom, he'd already been asked by half a dozen people about the robbery, and whether or not his stepfather and stepbrother were okay. All of those people were members of New Directions.

"And I was all pissed off that he was ignoring me all weekend, while my boy was laid up in the hospital!" Mercedes was particularly upset. "Why didn't you call me, Finn?"

"Kurt said he didn't want anyone to know." Even as he explained, Finn wished he had an explanation that made more sense. "And anyway, he's fine. I mean, sore and stuff. He's mostly just sleeping a lot."

Mercedes' eyes went wide, the beginnings of a smile on her face. "You mean he's _home_?"

_Oh._

_Crap._

By the time Finn came down the stairs to their temporarily shared room that afternoon after school, Kurt seemed to be more than ready for a little bit of company. He didn't have much to say beyond the initial "hi, how was your day?" kind of small talk questions – but then, Finn wasn't much of a conversationalist, either, usually – and now, more than ever, he had no idea what to say.

Even so, Kurt visibly relaxed a little as Finn settled into his chair at his desk across the room from Kurt's bed – so Finn decided to take a stab at his homework for once. Finn was well aware that as teenage boys went, he wasn't among the most sensitive – and that was saying a lot. Still, he was given to random, unexpected moments of perception – and it seemed clear to him that Kurt didn't really want to be alone at the moment. So Finn sat there and pretended to study, every now and then bringing up something that had happened that day, something he thought that Kurt might find interesting – all the while carefully avoiding anything that might give away his own slip-up that morning to Mercedes.

_Gonna have to tell him eventually, though,_ he realized grimly, feeling something akin to terror at the idea of Kurt's reaction when he found out. _Because now that she knows he's here, Mercedes isn't going to stay away for long._

Kurt was quietly, deeply grateful for Finn's quiet, steady presence in the room.

He didn't say anything to indicate his appreciation – but he found himself relaxing, lying back on his pillow and listening, nodding and murmuring when it was appropriate. It wasn't as if he really cared all that much about the pointless stories Finn was telling, but the sound of his voice was soothing, making him feel oddly, a little more secure – and a lot less lonely.

And suddenly – overwhelmingly exhausted.

He found himself drifting off to sleep, having time for a moment of clarity in which he realized that he never would have imagined himself feeling more comfortable going to sleep _with_ Finn in the room than without him there – before his thoughts faded into a pleasant haze, and he settled more comfortably down on his mattress, pulling the blankets up closer around him.

_He said he'd look out for me… won't let anything happen…_

And then – the doorbell rang.

_Kurt opened the door, expecting to see Mercedes standing there, DVDs in hand in preparation for a rare night in with her best friend – but instead, two masked men shoved past him into the house in a disorienting flurry of activity that left him confused and terrified, with a gun being held in his face._

_Dad, _was all he could think_. Oh, God, please don't hurt my dad…_

The doorbell rang – and Finn stopped talking abruptly at the sound of a shuddering gasp behind him. He turned with a worried frown to see Kurt sitting up straight in the bed, not even breathing, just staring up the stairs with dread in his wide, stricken gaze.

"No," he whispered, shaking his head, scooting back against the headboard and burying his face in his arms. "No, _please_…"

"Kurt?"

Finn sat down carefully on the edge of the bed, and Kurt didn't flinch or move away – but the tentative touch of his hand on Kurt's knee was obviously too much, when Kurt jerked away with a little gasp.

"D-don't," he whispered. "Don't touch me, please don't…"

"Okay." Finn made his voice softer, immediately withdrawing his hand, a sick sensation beginning to build in the pit of his stomach at Kurt's extreme reaction. "Okay, dude. Whatever you want, okay? It's all right. Really. It's just the doorbell. That's all. Just the doorbell."

Kurt raised his head, swallowing hard as he met Finn's eyes with panic in his own, tears streaming down his face. "_Th-they _rang the doorbell…" he whispered.

Finn's stomach lurched as he suddenly understood. "Kurt, _no_," he hurried to assure him. "It's not them. I promise. It's okay, dude, really. Look, I'll go check, okay? I'll go upstairs just to be sure, but I _promise_…"

There was a soft knock on the door at the top of the stairs, followed by a faint creaking as it was opened just a little. Before Kurt had time to freak out any further, both boys heard Carole's soft, cautious voice.

"Kurt? Your friends are here. Are you feeling up to some company?"

Kurt immediately got up from the bed and retreated to the bathroom, locking the door behind him and calling through it to Finn to find out who was there to see him. Finn made the trip up the stairs, then back down again to relay the message that it was Rachel and Mercedes.

Kurt opened the door just a crack, red-rimmed, tearful eyes narrowed suspiciously on Finn as he demanded, "How do they even know I'm still here?"

"I, um… may have let it slip?" Finn admitted with an apologetic grimace. "But I didn't tell them!" he hurried to clarify as Kurt groaned and closed the door. "I mean – it was in the papers, so they already knew..."

The door immediately shot open again, and the panicked look of horror on Kurt's face made Finn's stomach feel funny. "_What_?"

"I guess a – a robbery in Lima is pretty big news," he reluctantly replied. "They already knew about it when I got there."

"Robbery," Kurt whispered, looking away, his eyes large and stricken, barely even seeming aware that Finn was there anymore. "Right. It – it _would _be, I guess."

Kurt abruptly closed the bathroom door again, right in Finn's face. Finn blinked at the door inches from his nose, before timidly knocking on it again.

"Kurt? _Kurt_! Come on, dude, what do you want me to tell them?"

All was quiet for a few moments, and just when Finn was pretty sure he was going to have to give up, go upstairs, and tell the girls to go, Kurt called through the door again, his voice carrying an unnatural calm.

"Tell them to give me ten minutes."

Twenty minutes later, Finn made his way up the stairs for the third time, standing back and beckoning for Mercedes and Rachel to go past him down the stairs. Carole stood there for a moment, her arms crossed, a worried from on her face.

"Is everything okay down there?" she asked quietly. "Is he really okay with having company right now?"

"Is he really okay _at all_?" Finn shot back in a hushed, angry hiss, searching her face for answers that he wasn't at all sure he was ready to hear. "Mom – what _really_ happened to Kurt this weekend?"


	15. Chapter 15

Kurt stood in front of his mirror for a moment, drawing in a shaky breath and trying on a smile.

It felt brittle and painfully false, as if it'd been years since he'd used it, and he'd almost forgotten how. It'd only been a couple of days, really – and that in itself felt unfathomable. He didn't look like himself _to_ himself – and the forced smile fell away with the sudden, terrifying certainty that Rachel and Mercedes would know – they'd take one look at him and just _know_.

The footsteps on the stairs made his stomach drop, and he quickly sat down on the edge of his bed, folding his hands primly in his lap and putting the smile back on, turning expectant eyes toward the base of the stairs.

"Kurt!"

Mercedes smiled as she approached him, but her eyes were large and troubled as she swept him up in a warm hug that was a little too much, a little stifling. The moment she let him go, Rachel took her place, and Kurt fought back the completely inappropriate and undeserved desire to shove her away.

It wasn't Rachel's fault. She was his friend, and Mercedes was his _best_ friend, and he knew he should have been happy to see them. But it was just too much, too quickly, before he really had time to prepare for it, and he didn't know how to tell them that he just didn't want to be _touched_ right now.

_They'd listen. They'd stop, but…_

… _but__then__they__'__d_ know.

"Oh, Kurt," Mercedes sighed, sitting down beside him, and Kurt couldn't bear the sorrow in her voice as she looked at him too closely, her dark eyes taking in the bruises that marred his face, raising a hand to hover near them but not quite touching. "Does it hurt much, sweetie?"

"Finn said you were very brave," Rachel interjected helpfully, her smile bright and hopeful as she raised one hand to rest companionably on his shoulder. "He said you weren't afraid, and you talked back to the robbers, and tried to make sure they paid attention to you and left your dad alone."

Kurt was mildly surprised by that unnervingly accurate assessment of the situation, and wondered how Finn knew that. When he realized that it must be because Burt had talked to Finn about what had happened, he felt an uneasy, sick feeling creep over him.

_Dad__wouldn__'__t__tell__Finn__ –_ that _part.__He__wouldn__'__t__tell__him__without__making__sure__I__was__okay__with__it,__and__I__'__m_ not…

Still, the idea of the incident being discussed when he wasn't around was deeply unsettling.

"Not sure if that's very brave, or very _dumb_."

It took him a moment to process the words through his distracted thoughts, but when he did, Kurt blinked, startled, as he turned a bewildered, slightly betrayed gaze toward Mercedes. The tears shining in her eyes, the way her lip quivered as she reached out to take his hand, softened the blow of her words a little – but they still stung.

"It's just – Kurt, your _face_. Seeing you like this, and – boy, what were you _thinking_? They – God, they could have _killed_ you…"

"I'm very much aware of that, thank you," Kurt pointed out quietly, looking away. "And another heart attack could have killed my _dad_. But next time, if it makes you feel better, I'll just let him draw their attention like he tried to do, and let _him_ take the worst of it instead."

"No, Kurt," Mercedes relented, squeezing his hand imploringly until he reluctantly looked up at her again. "No, I didn't mean it like that. It's just – I can't stand to think about what could have happened, and… and… I'm just glad you're all right. That's all." She shrugged, giving him an apologetic grimace and admitting, "That was a crappy way to say it, but – I'm just glad it wasn't any worse than a few bruises."

The words were like a knife through his heart, and Kurt felt the sickness in the pit of his stomach welling up stronger. Her assumption, though exactly what he wanted her to think, made him feel oddly distant and detached from her, as if there were an invisible wall between them – one that would permanently keep him out of their innocent, carefree world and in this new, dark place of isolation where he'd been for the past two days.

"You _are_ all right, aren't you?" Rachel hesitantly asked, a slight frown creasing her brow. "I mean – a little banged up, but – but you're going to be okay? I mean, they wouldn't have let you leave the hospital if you weren't going to be okay…"

"I'm fine," Kurt assured her, not quite able to meet her eyes as he forced himself to smile again. "I'm – a little shaken up, naturally, so I've taken a couple of days to just rest, but – but I'm all right, I promise."

Rachel studied him for a moment, closely enough to make him feel self-conscious and slightly panicked, before she finally smiled, her shoulders relaxing. "Good." Rachel put her arm around him and shifted closer on the bed, and Kurt tried not to show his wince of pain at the movement of the mattress beneath him. "How long are you going to be staying in Lima?"

"Well – for good, actually," Kurt replied with a hesitant smile, explaining when they stared at him in surprise, "I'm coming back to McKinley."

"Kurt, that's awesome!" Mercedes replied, bouncing a little on the bed beside him in her excitement, and Kurt winced at the searing pain that innocent gesture caused. "I've missed you so much, boo, for real. It's going to be so good to have you home again, and…" Mercedes' voice trailed off, and she frowned. "What's wrong? Are you hurting? What happened?"

"Nothing, I just – I'm just a little sore, you know?" Kurt explained with a smile that he hoped didn't look as tight and forced as it felt. "You didn't do it, it's just – it's nothing. It just – hurts a little."

Mercedes' eyes narrowed with protective anger, and she shook her head slowly. "I'd like to get my hands on the guy that did this – show him what happens to fools who mess with _my_ friends."

Kurt's stomach did an anxious little flip at the mention of the man who'd hurt him, and the unintentional reminder that he still had yet to be found.

_He could still come back, if he wants to…_

… _could do it all again…_

Kurt couldn't be sure what exactly Mercedes saw on his face, but her expression abruptly softened with sorrow, and she placed a warm, gentle arm around his shoulders, resting her head on his shoulder.

"Oh, Kurt," she sighed. "I'm glad you're coming home and all, but – I sure wish this hadn't happened."

"I'm as glad as anyone that you'll be back at McKinley, and back in New Directions," Rachel acknowledged in that tone that told Kurt she was swiftly veering into competitive mode, and he tried not to respond to Mercedes' dramatic eye roll outside her line of vision. "I'd much rather have your rare counter-tenor vocal range as an asset to us than as an asset to the Warblers. But…" She hesitated, apologetic as she pointed out, "What about Karofsky? He's still there, and still as hateful as ever."

"Finn said he'll make sure he leaves me alone." Kurt smiled a little for real at the memory of Finn's passionate promise at the breakfast table that morning. "Anyway, my dad's a little shaken up, too. And – he doesn't want me that far from home right now. Which… is kind of ironic and doesn't really make sense, given that home is where it happened, but…"

"Kurt." Mercedes' voice was hesitant, and when Kurt turned his gaze toward her, there was a sort of dread in her eyes. "Kurt – _when_ exactly did it happen? I mean – what time…?" 

Kurt bit his lower lip, knowing why she was asking, and wanting to spare her the guilt he knew she'd feel at his answer – but well aware that there was no way he'd be able to convince her of anything other than what had happened. He opened his mouth to respond, but then couldn't seem to find the words, and just looked away.

"Oh, God," Mercedes gasped, lowering her head into her hands. "Oh, no. Oh, no, I didn't just… God, _no_…"

"You had no way of knowing," Kurt pointed out, this time reaching out to squeeze _her_ hand in both of his. "Mercedes, I did everything I could to make sure you _didn__'__t_ know…"

"Know what?" Rachel blinked, looking between the two of them with confusion. "What are you talking about?"

"I was here that night. While the robbers were here, and – and I just _left_. I just walked away, and – and if I'd noticed what was going on, if I'd gotten help…"

"Then what?" Kurt cut her off sharply. "I _might_ have a couple less bruises? Mercedes, I did my best to _make_ you go away," he insisted. "Because I didn't want you to get hurt. I'm just glad that you're okay, and don't worry about it because it's all over now and me and Dad are okay, and _you__'__re_ okay, and everything's _fine_, all right? So don't you dare feel guilty, because I was the one who _told_ you to go. Okay?"

Mercedes didn't look convinced, but she accepted his words, hugging him tightly, and Kurt gently raised his arms to return her embrace, allowing her to cry against his shoulder.

"I'm just so glad you're okay." Her words were muffled against his shirt. "I've _missed_you, Kurt…"

"I know," Kurt soothed her, drawing back and offering her an encouraging smile. "I've missed you too – but I'm here now. This whole thing was – scary and upsetting, yes, but – it's over now, and I'm back here in Lima, and – and everything's going to be normal again. All right?"

Mercedes nodded, seeming genuinely reassured by his words.

A quiet knock at the door upstairs made Kurt jump a little, and he glanced anxiously at the girls to see if they'd noticed, but they both were looking toward the stairs as the door creaked open.

"Girls?" Carole called down. "I know Kurt's glad to see you, but he needs to rest. Why don't you come on up now, and come back tomorrow if you like?"

"We'll be right up, Mrs. Hummel," Mercedes called back, giving Kurt one last hug before she rose from the bed. "Is it okay?" she asked, an anxious look in her eyes. "For us to come back tomorrow?"

Kurt nodded, forcing a bright smile in response to her words, though the last thing he wanted at the moment was more company.

_I have to get used to being around them again – now. I have to learn how to do this, and it's better if I do it gradually than just plunging in next week._

_Besides__ – __they__'__re__my__friends.__I__should__be_ glad _to__see__them__ – __right?_

He swallowed hard, fighting back the return of that uneasy, sick feeling that had eased a little while he'd been focused on soothing Mercedes.

_But_you're _not__right__anymore.__Things__won__'__t__be__normal__anytime__soon,__because_ you're _not__normal__ – __and__sooner__or__later,__everyone__'__s__going__to__figure__that__out._

_It's only a matter of time…_

Mercedes headed up the stairs, but Rachel lingered a few steps behind, hesitating a moment before turning back and standing in front of Kurt again.

"From one gifted actor to another," she began in a quiet, matter-of-fact tone, "a brilliant, Oscar-worthy performance. But – you don't have to pretend to be okay, Kurt. No one would be okay after going through something like that. It's nothing to be ashamed of. So – whenever you decide that you want to talk about it? Mercedes, Finn, me – everyone in New Directions, really – we'll all be here."

She didn't wait for a response before turning and heading up the stairs, and Kurt's heart sank with despair.

_Maybe__a__matter__of__less__time__than__I__thought._


	16. Chapter 16

"Thanks, Mrs. Hummel." Mercedes offered Finn's mother a warm smile as she walked past her out the front door. "I'll come by again tomorrow, if that's okay."

"As long as Kurt's feeling up to it," Carole agreed, returning Mercedes' smile and squeezing her shoulder as she passed. "I'm sure he's glad to have the company. Just call before you head over, okay?"

Finn turned expectantly toward Rachel, assuming that she was going to follow Mercedes out, but instead, she made her way only as far as where he stood near the gently used sofa the Hudson-Hummels had just purchased the previous day, taking both of his hands and meeting his eyes with a troubled, uncertain gaze.

"Is it okay if I stay for a little while?"

"Yeah, of course," Finn agreed, glancing toward his mother as an afterthought. "It is okay, right, Mom?"

"Yes, that's fine." Carole nodded. "I'll just be in the kitchen if you need anything." 

Finn sat down on the sofa without letting go of Rachel's hands, tugging her down beside him. He glanced over his shoulder toward the kitchen doorway, waiting until his mother was completely out of sight before focusing his worried frown on Rachel.

"So, how was he when you talked to him?" he asked in a tone of hushed urgency. "He's seriously not okay, right?"

Rachel gave him a small, sad smile. "Well, of course he's not _okay_, Finn. After what he's been through..."

"Yeah, I know, but – but doesn't it seem to you like – like maybe _more_ than that happened?" Finn persisted. "I mean – Kurt seems so – so traumatic right now…"

"He seems _traumatized_," Rachel gently corrected him, her brow creasing with worry as she glanced back toward the basement door. "Being held at gunpoint and robbed and nearly murdered was _traumatic_." She looked back up at Finn sadly. "Really, Finn, what more do you think it'd _take_?"

"I don't know." Finn sighed, shaking his head and looking away. "I guess you're right. It's just – I asked my mom what she wasn't telling me, if there was something more to the story than I know, and – she said if I wanted to know more, I have to ask Kurt. And – that means that there _is_ more to know, right?"

It was a troubling thought, given what he already knew of the situation. The mental image of his little brother being manhandled and kicked around by some masked psycho, forced to his knees with a gun waved in his face while he tried _so__hard_ to be defiant and difficult, to stand up to them, to make sure that if they hurt anyone, it was him and not his still-recovering father…

It made Finn feel a sense of awe in regards to Kurt that had previously been reserved for the likes of the father he'd never met, and the superheroes in the cartoons he'd watched as a kid, and whatever athlete happened to be his role model at the moment.

How was it possible that the boy in the basement – the boy his friends had tormented and taunted for years for his girly voice and mannerisms, who'd always responded to their jeers and insults with his head held high and a sharp comment that made their pitiful insults sound as if a five-year-old had made them up; hell, half the time Finn couldn't even _understand_ them, but he knew they were clever – how was it possible that Finn now felt that he'd never be as brave, as strong, quite as much a _man_ as _Kurt_?

_It's – like when it's something that's like the exact opposite of what you would have thought… what's the word?_

_Oh, yeah. Iconic. _

_It's totally iconic._

Rachel nodded thoughtfully, considering his reasoning. "Maybe there _is_ something more to the story of what happened that night," she conceded. "If you really want to know so badly, then ask him," she suggested. "But – be prepared for the possibility that he might not want to tell you." Her dark eyes were sad and solemn as she looked up to meet his gaze. "He's trying really hard to pretend that he's okay right now. So, if he doesn't tell you – don't push him, okay? Just – he'll tell you when he's ready – if he ever is."

Finn frowned, not liking the sound of that. "And if he's _never_ ready?"

Rachel's tone was gently reproving as she offered him a sympathetic little half-smile. "Then – his secrets are his to keep."

Finn didn't like it – but he had to admit that she had a point. There were things he hadn't ever told anyone, and didn't have any intention of ever telling anyone – like his secret technique for keeping himself under control when things got a little too hot and heavy with Rachel, or like the massive crush he'd had on Miss Pillsbury his freshman year of high school.

_He doesn't have to tell me if he doesn't want to…_

Still, Finn found himself making his way down to the basement an hour or so later, once Rachel had headed home. He found Kurt lying on his bed, staring sadly at his cell phone, as he had often found him over the past few days.

"Hey."

Kurt barely glanced up at him, offering a listless, barely whispered, "Hey," in return.

Finn hesitated, drawing in a deep breath before speaking in a halting, uncertain tone. "So – I just wanted to tell you that – I get that you're freaked, okay? About – the stuff that happened. I think – I think that's probably normal."

Kurt was staring at him now, his expression an odd cross between confusion and something that was not quite irritation, but ready to become it at a moment's notice. He just lay there in silence, a single brow raised as he waited for Finn to get to his point.

_The point. Right. Get on with it._

"Well, I just wanted you to know that – I think you're freaking awesome, Kurt. I think – if it was me, I'd probably have pissed myself if someone stuck a gun in my face, and – and I think you're pretty damn brave for standing up to the robbers the way you did. I just – just want you to know that, and – and to know that – if you ever want to like, talk or anything – about what happened – or anything – I'm here, dude. Okay?"

Kurt was quiet for a moment, studying Finn with a pensive frown that made him feel suddenly very self-conscious, and he looked away, swallowing hard.

"Okay," Kurt replied at last, his voice soft and tired. "I just – I just want to rest right now. Okay?"

"Oh. Oh, yeah, sure, man." Finn nodded, turning toward the stairs. "I'll just catch you later. Let me know if you need anything…"

"Finn?" Finn was halfway up the stairs when the quiet, oddly vulnerable voice reached his ears, and he paused, half-turning on the stairs and waiting for Kurt to go on. After a moment's silence, the younger boy added softly, "Thank you."

The single week that Kurt had to hide away in the safety of his basement passed all too quickly.

He was beginning to feel better, physically – and getting better at not feeling _at__all_, emotionally. There were visits from his friends in New Directions, some of them showing up once or twice, while others – like Mercedes, Rachel, and Tina – came daily to show their support and let him know how much they'd missed him, and how glad they were that he was coming back to McKinley.

Kurt got really good at the faking of bright, optimistic smiles and convincing his friends that he was really okay – or at least, going to be sometime in the near future.

Kurt couldn't imagine that such a day might actually come.

He ignored the repeated calls and texts from Blaine, not wanting to tell him what had happened, and not feeling strong enough to keep up his carefully constructed façade in the face of Blaine's concern. Still, when those calls and texts began to taper off, gradually going from hourly, to four or five hours, and then longer, between, Kurt felt a dull ache of loss at the realization that Blaine was giving up.

When Friday came and went without a single call, Kurt didn't know whether to feel relieved – or heartbroken.

He tried to shut it out of his mind and focus all of his thoughts on convincing himself that he would be okay, going back to McKinley on Monday.

He was no longer afraid of David Karofsky. After having faced pure evil in its most terrifying form, Kurt couldn't muster up even a trace of the old fear that the other boy had once inspired in him. He remembered David's face as he'd backed him up against the wall, a threatening smile on his lips as he warned Kurt to silence – and now, all he could see was the sheer, blind terror in David's eyes – the desperation, the intense need for self-preservation that had driven his actions.

Why hadn't he seen it _before_?

Now, it was impossible to miss – because he knew exactly what that felt like.

No, it was not Karofsky that made Kurt's stomach sick at the thought of going back; it was the knowledge that he would have to face his friends, his classes, _every__day_, without ever letting on to any of them that way in which he'd been so completely, irrevocably _changed_.

He was damaged. Dirty. Constantly terrified.

He couldn't sleep without a light, or even _alone_, in his own bedroom anymore. The slightest touch made him flinch away; sudden movements near him made his heart clench in terror. Even his father's rough, gentle hands, his protective arms encircling him, made Kurt feel suffocated, restrained, desperate to escape so that he could regain some semblance of control.

A stranger in a mask with a gun had managed to do what so many others had tried before to do, and all had failed miserably – to utterly, completely _break_ him.

"You know, you don't have to go in if you don't want to."

Kurt heard the tremor in his father's voice, sensed the fear he felt at letting his son walk back into the school that had been such a miserable prison for him the previous year – and for one desperate, panicked moment, he wanted to accept the offered reprieve, to ask his dad to just turn the car around and take him home.

But he knew he couldn't do that.

It wouldn't get _easier_to face the fear of this place, of the staring eyes and pitying looks and well-intentioned but humiliating questions. If he didn't want to go in there _now_, Kurt could only imagine how much less he'd want to go in the next day, or the day after that, or the day after that. Time would only give people more opportunity to talk, and him more opportunity to adjust to being at home, until eventually, going back would no longer feel like an option at all.

Kurt knew deep down that if he went back home to hide now… he'd be hiding forever.

"You don't want to do this, I'll turn this car around right now," Burt insisted quietly. He glanced over his shoulder with a rueful little grimace, adding, "You know. After Finn gets out."

"I'm never going to _want_ to, Dad," Kurt sighed, casting a grim glance toward the old, worn down building that somehow looked both intimately familiar, and like a strange, new place to him. "I have to, anyway."

"Don't worry, Burt," Finn interjected. "I won't let anything happen to him." He looked toward Kurt, his face in the rearview mirror earnest and solemn. "Kurt, I swear if any of those guys so much as _looks_ at you wrong…"

He reached a supportive hand forward toward Kurt's shoulder as he spoke. His words trailed off as Kurt tensed, and Finn's hand faltered, hesitating a moment before coming to rest on Burt's shoulder instead.

"Well… I'm not going to let anyone mess with you. I promise."

Kurt looked away, feeling guilty and ashamed for his reaction, for making Finn feel like crap when all he'd wanted to do was to be helpful and supportive.

"Thank you, Finn," he replied with quiet sincerity. "That means more than you know."

He saw no reason to deflate Finn's heroic attempt by pointing out that McKinley's bullies with their slushies and dumpster tosses were the least of his worries at the moment. He drew in a deep breath, straightening his posture and adjusting the strap of his messenger bag on his shoulder before forcing a bright smile for his father's benefit and opening the front passenger door.

"Well, wish me luck," he breathed out as he stepped out onto the sidewalk. "Here we go."


	17. Chapter 17

William McKinley High School had never looked so intimidating as Kurt made his way toward the large double doors that led inside. Finn quickly fell into step beside him, adjusting his backpack on his shoulder, his voice low and private, inaudible to any of the dozens of students milling around them in every direction.

"I meant what I said back there. No one's gonna touch you. Okay?"

Kurt forced a bright smile, sparing Finn what he hoped passed for an appreciative glance. "I know," he replied softly. "Thank you."

Despite his words, however, he found himself wishing that Finn would just leave him alone – right up until the moment when they walked through the doors. Kurt knew he wasn't imagining the curious glances in his direction, the urgent whispers behind him as he passed down the hall toward his locker.

Suddenly, he was desperately grateful to have Finn by his side – to simply not be facing this alone.

Mercedes and Rachel were waiting for them at Kurt's locker.

It seemed that at some point while he was not around, the three of them had worked out a plan. Finn would accompany Kurt to homeroom and English. Mercedes was in the same homeroom, after which she would take Finn's place for Kurt's trigonometry and home economics classes, while Rachel would stay at Kurt's side during the French, world history, and study hall periods they shared.

"I wouldn't blame you if you're ready to ditch us by lunch," Rachel acknowledged with a rueful but warm smile, reaching out to touch his arm – and Kurt fought not to pull away, not to _scream_ with frustration.

"Yeah," Finn agreed. "Just – try to stay where we can see you if you do."

"Thanks, guys," Kurt sighed, offering them a weak smile. "But – I don't think this is necessary, really. I think – I think I'm probably too pathetic for the bullies to target at this point. I know they like to prey on the weak and defenseless, but at a certain point it just stops being fun." He paused, shrugging slightly. "You know, I guess. If you're the type of human being that finds that sort of thing fun to begin with. I wouldn't really know."

"Please," Mercedes scoffed, rolling her eyes as she slid her arm through Kurt's and started down the hallway. "More like they don't want to mess with the kid who took on two armed robbers all by himself and came out alive. If Karofsky and Azimio were in your place, they'd have been blubbering like babies and begging for mercy."

_Please – please, don't – don't do this to me, please…_

Kurt withdrew his arm from hers abruptly, forcing a reassuring smile in response to the worried, uncertain look she gave him.

"I should go," he explained. "I want to check my hair – make sure I'm presentable – before I start this day."

"I'll go with you," Finn offered, following Kurt the few yards he needed to backtrack in order to reach the bathrooms – only to have Kurt choose the girls' restroom, the door closing in his face just before he would have walked right into it. "I'll – just wait for you here, then," Finn amended flatly, his words muffled but audible through the closed door.

Kurt let out a shaky sigh of relief, trying to push back the guilt he felt for intentionally thwarting the best intentions of his friends. He stared at his own reflection in the mirror – wide, terrified eyes, pale skin, hands that trembled as he raised them to adjust hair that didn't need adjusting – and tried to calm his frayed nerves, tried to push back the dark memories that flooded his mind, and focus on taking deep breaths, his hands clenched into fists as he struggled to stop the shaking that seemed to have overtaken his body.

When he stepped out of the ladies' room, Mercedes had gone on ahead, but Finn was waiting for him. He made himself smile, though it felt brittle and false, as he walked into his homeroom and found himself surrounded with several more familiar faces.

Tina immediately rose from her seat and headed toward him, a brilliant smile lighting up her face – but she was coming too quickly, too close, before he could prepare himself for the hug – _just__a__sweet,__simple,__non-threatening_hug – she offered. The way she immediately let go – the dismay in her dark eyes – made it clear to Kurt how obvious his reaction had been.

"I-I'm sorry," Tina said, biting her lower lip, her face sad and confused. "I didn't mean to…"

"It's okay," Kurt whispered, glancing self-consciously around the room as he slid into the seat beside her, hoping the none-too-discreetly staring eyes aimed in his direction would quickly get bored and find something else to focus on. "Just – don't worry about it. You didn't do anything," he insisted, reaching out to give her arm a reassuring squeeze. "I'm just a little jumpy, that's all."

One last sweep of the room as the teacher headed for her desk revealed that most of his fellow students were at least trying to look as if they didn't notice him – except for Santana, sitting just behind him and a couple seats over. She had a vaguely distracted frown on her face, and for a moment he thought she might have been staring at him by accident, her thoughts somewhere else entirely – but her gaze was a little too sharp, a little too close. He tried a smile, but she didn't return it. Instead, she narrowed her eyes with suspicion – before rolling them and looking away, tapping her pencil impatiently against the top of her desk.

_She__found__me__annoying__before,_ Kurt remembered. _Not__that__there__'__s__much__of__anyone__she_ doesn't _find__annoying,__besides__Brittany.__But__I__'__m__pretty__sure__she__can__smell__blood__ – __or__at__least__weakness.__It__'__s__easy__for__her__to__see__that__I__'__m__even__more__of__a__pathetic__wreck__now__than__I__was__when__I__left__here__a__month__ago._

_And clearly, that annoys her._

Kurt swallowed hard, trying not to notice when she started staring again, and focused on sinking down further into his seat and trying to make his patheticness as inconspicuous as possible. Santana was scary in the best of conditions.

Santana, completely focused and zeroing in on _him_ – well, _that_ was simply _terrifying_.

It was an ironic contrast to the reaction Kurt had when he finally ran into Karofsky just after lunch – quite accidentally on both parts. His heart clenched slightly as their eyes met, though Kurt was pretty sure his reaction was little more than physical habit at this point. Finn was with him, and he immediately, pointedly crossed to Kurt's other side, placing himself firmly between Kurt and Karofsky, and gave the other boy a fierce, intimidating glare.

The Karofsky Kurt remembered might have offered a sneer and a derisive comment in passing, something designed to let Finn know that he wasn't scared of him, that he was only letting it go because they weren't worth his time, not because Finn Hudson was actually capable of intimidating him.

This time, Karofsky just looked away immediately, his head bowed self-consciously as he hurried his pace away from them.

It was – oddly unsettling.

He didn't know if it was his constant volunteer security detail, or the fact that the official, edited version of what had happened to him and his father was public knowledge, but he seemed to be considered off limits by not only Karofsky, but all of the usual jocks who liked to push him around and toss cruel names in his direction as they passed.

_Just like I thought. Even the bullies think I'm too pitiful to mess with now. _

_At least that means I've made it through the whole day without getting slushied – so far._

The rest of the day went just as smoothly, and Kurt found himself letting out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding as he walked beside Rachel into the choir room at 3:30 that afternoon. Glee club had always been his favorite part of the day, but today, it had taken on a new meaning for him.

The day was almost over – and he'd made it.

Oh, sure, he'd gotten a ton of weird looks and whispering behind his back – but that was nothing new for him, not really, and just as Finn had promised, no one had dared to lay a hand on him or say a single nasty word. He tried not to think about the fact that that was probably mostly out of pity, and just focus on the positive of what that meant – that he'd be able to make it here, again.

He'd come back to McKinley without incident; and, standing in the doorway to the choir room, among the group of familiar, friendly faces, feeling the memories slide easily into place instead of the ones he'd been wrestling with all day – Kurt could allow himself to almost believe that it was going to be okay, after all – that in time, he might even manage to fall into something that felt a little like normal again.

He didn't even flinch when Brittany headed toward him, arms extended for a hug, Tina's worried gasp and outreached hand not swift enough to stop her before she got to him. Kurt actually _felt_ the smile he gave her as she wrapped her arms around him and kissed his cheek, pulling back to give him a sweet, earnest smile.

"I'm so glad you didn't get shot."

"It's good to see you, Britt," he replied, genuinely meaning it.

He'd expected everyone that he hadn't run into during the course of the day to want to express their well wishes, so Kurt was at least somewhat braced for the physical contact that seemed to naturally accompany that. Only Puck and Santana kept their distance – Santana filing her nails as if she was bored, and Puck offering only a gruff, abbreviated little nod from his place in the risers – apparently preoccupied with the hard-ass images they had to maintain.

"Kurt! You're back!"

A loud male voice behind him, familiar though it was – a strong hand on his shoulder – and suddenly, Kurt's chest clenched up, his breath leaving him as he spun around, his hands thrown up defensively in front of him.

"_Don__'__t_!"

The cheerful chatter of the choir room died away, and Kurt found himself staring into the horrified face of Mike Chang, who looked about like Kurt imagined he would if he'd just run over a puppy.

"I'm sorry," he hurried to explain. "I didn't mean to, Kurt, I just – I wasn't thinking…"

"It's okay," Kurt repeated for what felt like the hundredth time that day. "It's okay, really. Don't feel bad. It's me, I'm just – I'm a little out of it right now. You just startled me, that's all."

"O-okay."

Mike didn't really seem to be buying it, but he let Tina pull him over to where she was sitting, where the two of them began talking quietly, matching troubled, solemn expressions on their faces as they no doubt compared notes on their respective awkward first encounters with him.

His face flaming with humiliation, Kurt sank into the seat between Rachel and Mercedes, bowing his head and closing his eyes for a moment before subtly glancing around the room to survey the damage. Thankfully, no one seemed to be paying him any more attention at the moment – except for Santana, again.

Her gaze was fixed on him again, not quite as intense this time, but more speculative, as if she were sizing him up for some reason.

Kurt was more than a little freaked out by this. This time, he knew better than to try to smile at her, and instead just tried to focus on Mr. Shue as he made his way to the front of the room, several papers in his hand.

"Okay, guys. We're all thrilled to have Kurt back with us…"

He waited, beaming and falling in with his students as a spontaneous round of applause met his words. Once it had faded, he continued, setting the papers on the miniature podium in front of him.

"… and just in time to work on our new number for regionals. We've only practiced this once so far, Kurt, so it shouldn't take you long to catch up."

Kurt nodded, smiling brightly as the first notes to "Sing" by My Chemical Romance began to play on the piano.

He listened as Rachel sang the verse, mentally finding the harmony part he would need to come in with, with the others, when they reached the chorus. The music soared leading into the group part of the number, and Kurt opened his mouth to sing.

"_You're a singer, Kurt?"_

Suddenly, he was overwhelmed by a feeling of nausea, his face breaking out in a cold sweat, his hands in his lap shaking uncontrollably. He swallowed hard, closing his eyes and trying to focus on the notes that he was supposed to be singing – but they wouldn't come. He couldn't seem to find the music – couldn't find the words – couldn't find his _voice._

"_Then__why__don__'__t__you__sing__for_me_?__"_

Kurt lurched to his feet, swaying dangerously for a moment before gracelessly rushing toward the door. He barely made it to the ladies' room down the hall, barely managed to drop painfully to his knees on the cold linoleum, before vomiting up the few bites of lunch he'd managed into the toilet in front of him. His head was spinning, black spots of light obscuring his vision as the mocking laughter of his attacker echoed in his head, emphasizing this cruel new humiliation.

He couldn't _sing_.

The first moment he'd attempted to do so, and all he could think about was what had happened in his house that day – the high, thin, far-from-pretty sound of his own panicked voice as he'd struggled to obey, humiliated by his own failure, irrationally actually _caring_ about the fact that this was the only time this man would ever hear him sing, and he'd never have the chance to prove that he could do better when he wasn't terrified and desperate and certain that it was only a matter of time before he was going to be brutally murdered.

He remembered the man's cruel laughter, his taunting words as he'd slapped Kurt to silence.

"_That's real pretty, Kurt. Pretty like a little fucking bitch. You sing like a girl, you know that?"_

Kurt was dry-heaving over the toilet, nothing left to come up, but unable to fight the overwhelming desire to purge himself of the disgusting feeling of shame he felt at the memories of that cold voice, those softly invasive hands, all over his body.

"_Maybe I should treat you like one…"_

When Karofsky had tormented him the previous semester – when the other bullies had shoved him around and called him names and threatened him – he'd always been able to find comfort and shelter in music. He would sing, and his heart would soar with his voice, above the humiliation and hurt, taking him to a place where, for a little while, he didn't have to think about it anymore.

Now, the shame was all he could think about.

And he _couldn__'__t__sing_.


	18. Chapter 18

Kurt stayed on his knees by the toilet, trying to shut out the remembered voice of his attacker in his mind, trying to think of anything else, until his breathing finally returned to something resembling normal, and his stomach began to stop churning. He rose to his feet, feeling dizzy and shaky and gross, grimacing at the awful taste in his mouth.

_Just… get it together. Wash your face, rinse your mouth, and get back in there before someone decides to come after you…_

"Kurt?"

_Too late._

Kurt didn't respond to the sound of Rachel's voice, concerned and cautious as she matched his steps, crossing the room to meet him at the sink. He brought some water to his mouth in a trembling hand, spitting it out in the sink and wiping his mouth with a towel before bracing his hands against the sink in front of him and letting out a heavy sigh, closing his eyes for a moment.

Ignoring her and hoping she went away was clearly not going to be an option.

"Are you all right?" Rachel continued, stopping at his side and reaching out to place a soft, small hand at the crook of his arm.

Kurt jerked away from her touch before he could stop himself, turning to face her and swiping self-consciously at his face with the back of his hand, unable to meet her eyes. "I'm fine," he replied, wincing a bit inwardly at his tone, which was a bit harsher than he'd intended it to be. "I just – wish everyone would stop asking me that."

In the mirror, out of the corner of his eye, Kurt could see Rachel bite her lip, her eyes warm and sad and far too sympathetic. "I get that," she replied softly, nodding. "But you know, Kurt – we don't all just want you to say yes. I hope you know that. If we're asking, it's because we _really_ want to know. We're your _friends_. We care about you, and if you want to talk about anything…"

"I _don__'__t_," Kurt snapped, his voice rising with frustration. When Rachel flinched slightly at his tone, Kurt immediately relented, his shoulders falling with regret. "I'm sorry, Rachel," he sighed wearily. "This isn't your fault. None of this is anyone's fault, but – but I just can't deal with everyone else's drama about this right now, okay? It's hard enough to deal with this on my own, and I just need for you and Finn and everyone else…"

"But that's just it, Kurt!" Rachel broke in with an encouraging smile, a nervous laugh in her words. "You don't _have_to deal with this on your own! We're _right__here_, and…"

"Let it go, Berry. You're clearly getting nowhere – so get lost."

Kurt and Rachel both looked up with surprise to see Santana standing in the doorway, one hand on her hip as she idly examined the blood red nails on her other hand. She looked up with a false, dangerous smile, raising an eyebrow in Rachel's direction.

"I said beat it, she-hobbit." Santana sauntered further into the room as she spoke, her eyes narrowed on Rachel, her smile fading slightly. "I've _got_this."

Rachel looked up at Kurt uncertainly, her dark eyes worried as they darted back and forth between him and Santana. Kurt wasn't exactly comfortable with the idea of being alone in the ladies' room with Santana, but he liked his chances of keeping his guard up better with a girl who'd bullied him and treated him like garbage since freshman year, than with the one who had somehow become his closest friend over the course of the past year.

_At__least__I__can__freeze__Santana__out,_ he realized. _Sooner__or__later,__Rachel__'__s__gonna__figure__it__out__if__I__can__'__t__get__her__to__go__away__…_

"It's okay, Rachel. I'll be back to class in a minute," he said softly, reaching out at last to squeeze Rachel's hand, meeting her eyes in warm reassurance. His mouth quirked up slightly in a faint, sarcastic smile as he added, "Go on. Save _yourself._"

"Please," Santana drawled, rolling her eyes, giving a smirk in response to Rachel's suspicious glare as she passed her on her way out the door. "If she was _really_ on my list, there's no place she could hide." Only once the door had closed behind Rachel, Santana looked back towards Kurt, taking a few slow, measured steps closer. "Alone at last."

Kurt turned deliberately away from her, taking a couple more towels from the dispenser and wetting them in the sink, dabbing carefully at his face as he replied in a cold, flat tone, "What do you want, Santana?"

"I've been trying to figure you out all day, Hummel," Santana remarked, her voice deceptively calm, almost disinterested, as she continued until she was standing right beside him, leaning one hand on the edge of the sink he was using – a bit too close, too much in his space for his comfort. "I knew there was something about this whole thing that I wasn't quite catching – but I think I've got it now."

_She couldn't possibly have figured it out…_

Kurt's stomach lurched at her words, but he rolled his eyes, dismissive. He kept his tone flat, bored, when he replied, tossing the used towels in the trash and turning to face her with his arms crossed over his chest.

"Please go away."

Santana ignored his words, smiling thoughtfully. "You walked in here like you owned the place, with your special guard detail and your better-than-everyone smirk, and you're trying to act like everything's okay – like _you__'__re_ okay – but you're so obviously not."

As she spoke, she edged in nearer, and suddenly Kurt felt trapped, claustrophobic, his stomach churning again. He swallowed hard, his mouth dry with apprehension, but somehow managed to force out a stony, cold response.

"I'm _fine_."

"Really?" Santana raised a skeptical eyebrow. "Because you don't seem fine. In fact, you seem like this is making you really uncomfortable."

"It's _my__problem_," Kurt hissed, closing his eyes and retreating, against his will, to the wall beside the sink, cursing his choice when Santana moved to stand between the two sinks, effectively blocking him in. "I'll get over it. Just leave me alone."

"I saw how you reacted when Tina hugged you this morning – and then Mike just a minute ago," Santana observed, and Kurt looked up to see her smile fading, something hard and painful in her eyes as she continued with a mirthless little laugh in her voice, "That's how you're going to deal with this? Just smile and tell them you're fine? _Apologize_ to _them_ and act like everything's just great? Like they're not making you want to crawl out of your skin just by touching you?"

The words were too accurate, cutting painfully past his façade, and the way she edged closer as she spoke made Kurt want to scream, to flee – but there was nowhere to go.

"If you don't want to be touched, Hummel…"

Santana continued, her voice trembling slightly with something that sounded like anger, though Kurt had no idea what _she_ should be angry about. _He_ was the one being practically accosted, and she was just too close, close enough that he could feel the heat from her body, even though she wasn't touching, not yet, but if she did, Kurt thought he might _scream,_and why wouldn't she just _leave__him__alone_?

Santana's smile was too calm, her gaze unsettlingly sharp, knowing, as she slowly and very deliberately reached out a hand and placed it on his arm.

"… then don't let them. Just tell them 'don't fucking touch me'…!"

"_Don__'__t__fucking__touch__me_!" Kurt snapped before he even knew he was going to speak, standing up straighter, jerking his arm away from her and taking a step forward to force her back. His voice was trembling dangerously, his hands clenched into fists at his sides, his eyes burning with frustrated tears. "Just _back__off_, all right?"

Santana took a couple of slow steps back, crossing her arms over her chest as a slow, triumphant smile spread across her face. "Yes. That's more like it."

The fact that he had somehow played right into her game and apparently done exactly what she wanted him to do just fed Kurt's fury. He threw his hands up in front of him in frustration, using the added room the gesture bought him to move out from between the sinks and back toward the door. Heedless of the hot tears that slid down his face, he nearly shouted his next words in Santana's infuriatingly calm, accepting face.

"God, I'm just so _sick_ of everyone asking if I'm okay all the time and telling me I should _talk_ about it and just being all over me and freaking _smothering_ me when all I want is for them to just _leave__me__alone_!"

He turned toward the door as if to leave, but then turned back a moment later, raising one hand upward in a helpless gesture of frustration, shaking his head as he continued, "I know they think they're helping. They think they're making it better, but every time they hug me or touch my shoulder or put their _hands_ on me I just want to _scream_. I can't – I just can't take – I can't…"

All of a sudden, Kurt couldn't even draw enough breath to finish, his lungs tightening and forcing him back, away, as he struggled to breathe. His back his the door and he slid down against it, covering his face with his hands and trying to stem the flow of the tears that streamed down his face, trying to catch his breath.

It didn't really matter. He didn't know anymore what he'd been about to say, anyway.

The slow sound of Santana's footsteps across the floor toward him made him tense, bracing himself for another confrontation – just now when he seemed to have used up the last of his strength and ammunition – but she just sat down on the floor beside him, her back against the door as well, and the strangely comforting thought crossed his mind that if someone tried to come inside right then, they wouldn't be able to push them _both_away from the door to do so.

There was silence for a few long, weighted moments, the only sound Kurt's harsh, uneven breaths as he struggled to regain his composure.

"Breathe, Kurt," Santana sighed beside him, her voice uncharacteristically soft and patient – and to Kurt's relief, she didn't touch him, didn't move into his space again as she'd done before. "Breathe."

Finally, he looked up at her, vaguely aware that he must have lookedlook a wreck, his face red and streaked with tears. Despairing, he shook his head, his voice barely over a whisper when at last he found it again.

"God, Santana – I'm so screwed up."

Santana's mouth quirked up slightly at the corner, but there was no cruelty in the faint hint of a smile, or in her quiet, flat observation as she stared down at her lap.

"No kidding."

"I can't – I can't sing anymore."

Santana looked back up at him sharply, immediately, a frown creasing her brow. "What?"

"I just – I try, but – but all I can think about every time I try is just – is _him_, and what he _did_, and his hands on me and the things he _said_, and I – I _can__'__t_," Kurt confessed brokenly, tears flowing again – vaguely aware that he was probably saying too much, but unable to stop himself. "That's all I've got, Santana – my voice. It's the only thing that's going to take me away from here, from all of this, from what _happened,_ and – and it's _gone_." He looked back up at her, sad and defeated. "He – he ruined me, Santana. He _ruined_me."

Santana was quiet for a moment, before finally replying, "I know." Her hand slid across the floor between them, edging toward his, well within his sight – and when he didn't move his away, she finally completed the gesture, gently clasping it with her own. "Kurt…" She waited until he looked up into her eyes, uncertain and questioning, to repeat emphatically, meaningfully, "I _know_."

Kurt saw the recognition in her eyes, heard it in the heaviness of her voice, but couldn't quite bring himself to accept exactly what she was saying.

"What?" he demanded, his voice trembling, instantly defensive. "What do you _know_?"

"I – I just _know_, Kurt, okay?" Santana sighed, a little defensive herself.

"_How_?" he cut her off, withdrawing his hand and drawing away from her a little bit. "How do you know _anything_…?"

"Because you're not the only one who's been seriously fucked up for life, okay?" she shot back, her voice rising, shaky, a little angry. She swallowed hard, meeting his eyes, and Kurt suddenly understood when he saw the hurt, the confusion, the insecurity there that matched what he saw when he looked in the mirror. "Because…" she continued, softening as she held his gaze, saw him begin to grasp what she was saying. "… because some things you just know. If you've _been_ there. All right? Some things – you just know."

Kurt looked away for a moment, his mind slowly catching up with what his heart had already figured out, putting the pieces together, suddenly understanding why Santana had been so focused on him all day, why she'd followed him in here, why she alone out of all of his friends had known how to push him through to a much-needed release of the pent-up anger and frustration he'd been fighting with all day…

… why she alone now knew the secret he'd been keeping…

"You can't tell anyone, Santana!" Kurt pleaded, looking up at her abruptly and reaching out to take her hand again. "Please. Please, don't tell anyone. If they knew – if they knew that it was anything more than just a robbery – I – I'm lucky so far because they can't – they're not allowed to talk about – about…" Kurt struggled over the words, his voice dropping to a hushed, shame-filled whisper as his eyes dropped to their joined hands. "… underage victims of – of _that_ – on the news and stuff. But – if anybody ever found out what he did to me…"

"Please," Santana scoffed, but she squeezed his hand in silent reassurance as she spoke. "I'm a bitch, and maybe even a little bit of a sociopath – but I'm not _completely_ evil."

Instinctively Kurt knew that she was telling the truth; she wasn't going to go spreading this around. He was relieved, and leaned back against the door, letting out a long, shaky sigh. Still, the very thought of what she'd discovered becoming common knowledge made him feel sick inside. Kurt stared down at the floor, shaking his head.

"They already call me every demeaning, sexual insult in their admittedly limited vocabularies around here," he pointed out softly, trying to keep the tremor out of his voice. "Every day – or at least they did, before I left. For now, they're leaving me alone, but – but it's only a matter of time before the pity wears off and things go back to normal, and – and what happens if they find out that I can't even – couldn't even stop him from – from making me – from – from _forcing_ me to…"

"_Hey_." Santana's voice was somehow sharp and gentle at the same time, as she turned to face him more completely, waiting to speak until he reluctantly met her eyes. "They're not going to find out, Kurt – because I'm not going to say anything. It's nobody's business but yours, and it's going to stay that way, if I have anything to say about it."

Kurt bit his lower lip, taking in the honest, open promise in her eyes and her words for a moment, before nodding, accepting it, his shoulders falling with relief.

"Thanks," he whispered. "Thanks, Santana."

She shrugged. "We'd better get back before Mr. Shue sends Miss Pillsbury in after us." She rose to her feet, extending a hand to help him to his own as well. "But you know," she added as an afterthought, "if you ever _do_need to talk…"

Kurt glared at her, but couldn't help a slight smile as he saw the teasing gleam in her dark eyes, and realized that she was just messing with him.

"I will _stab_you in the face," he threatened in an exaggeratedly dark, warning tone.

Santana laughed, holding up both hands in a placating gesture. "_Kidding_," she assured him. Her smile faded, becoming warmer, more solemn, as she shrugged and added, "Except, you know – not."

Kurt nodded, returning her smile. "Got it." He was quiet for a moment before repeating softly, "Thanks."

Santana glanced at the clock on the wall before observing, "It's too late to go back to glee club. Why don't you text Manboobs and tell him I'm driving you home?"

"Okay." Kurt nodded, taking out his phone. "But don't blame me if he takes it upon himself to call the cops and have them start searching the local ditches for my body."

The passenger seat of Santana's car was the last place Kurt had imagined he would end this overwhelming day. But a few minutes later, he was headed home, allowing the relief and easing of the pressure to sink in, as Santana made him laugh with crazy stories of Cheerios practices and other things he'd missed while away at Dalton. The weight of his worries seemed to slip away as she pulled into his driveway, and he got out to go inside.

His first day was officially over – and he'd survived.


	19. Chapter 19

The next day was a little easier than Kurt's first day back had been.

He seemed to be old news already to the general student population, most of whom just ignored him as he made his way through McKinley's halls. There was the odd glance or whispered conversation that stopped as he drew near, but for the most part, his fellow students seemed to be already bored with his story, as they knew it.

His panic attack in glee club the previous day felt like a distant memory, and Kurt was almost able to convince himself that that was all it had been – just a panic attack. He wasn't _physically incapable_ of singing. That was just silly. He'd just freaked out a little bit, had a moment's uncertainty, when faced with his dark memories of the attack, and allowed his mind to play tricks on him.

He could sing. _Of course_ he could sing.

He just… didn't feel like it at the moment. Not even to prove to himself that he could.

Besides, he had more interesting things to think about – like the fact that Santana seemed to have abruptly added herself to his security team. Kurt was amused, but not at all surprised, to find that her presence at his side seemed to be more effective than that of all of his other friends combined.

She didn't take shifts like the others. Rather, she seemed to have some kind of psychic radar that told her when Kurt was feeling a little anxious, or a little overwhelmed, or just about to pass a group of McKinley's more intimidating jocks. At just the right moment, she would materialize at his side, slipping her arm through his and offering him a sly but warm smile before casting her icy glare on anyone who dared to so much as look at him wrong.

He would never have thought that, of all people, _Santana Lopez_ would be the one who would make him feel really _safe_ for the first time since the attack.

And then there was the added bonus, the looks of horrified confusion on the faces of his brother and friends when they saw the two of them strolling down the hallway together like lifelong besties. Kurt couldn't help but find it incredibly amusing – hilarious, even.

Only Brittany seemed completely unsurprised and unbothered by the new arrangement. Without missing a beat, she just sidled up at Kurt's other side, taking his arm in a mirror of Santana's pose.

Kurt's second day back at McKinley proved to be not only a lot less scary – but a lot more fun, as well.

When he walked in on the morning of the third day, Kurt wasn't even nervous. He was certain that the worst was over, and anyone who still seemed to find his trauma entertaining would swiftly be scared off by Santana and the others. Everything was going to be fine.

Except that in his homeroom, Kurt noticed that people seemed to be staring again. When he'd look up to meet their eyes with a haughty, raised eyebrow, they'd invariably avert their eyes, waiting until he'd stopped looking to whisper to each other again.

"What is _up_ with everybody?" he asked Finn across the lunch table, his voice a frustrated whisper.

"What do you mean?" Finn frowned, clearly confused.

Of course, that was his natural state, so Kurt wasn't surprised.

"They're just all – staring, and whispering, and – and they weren't this bad _yesterday_, so…"

"Kurt, this is Lima," Finn pointed out. "It's not like stuff like this happens every day. Besides, you know…" Finn shrugged, a smile of affectionate pride on his face. "… you're kind of a hero."

Kurt didn't feel like a hero at all.

In fact, as the afternoon wore on, he began to feel more and more self-conscious and anxious. He tried to ignore the stares and whispers, though he knew by now that he was not imagining it. It was definitely worse today than it'd been his first day back.

_What are they all staring at? I thought they were past this by now. What are they saying – _thinking_ – about me? _

He kept his head down, kept his eyes focused straight ahead, and tried to think about nothing more than his afternoon classes – but by the time he reached his free period, the one directly before glee club, he was really freaked out.

He let out a shaky sigh of relief as he stepped into the empty choir room, not bothering to turn on the light, and made his way to the far corner of the room. He sat down on the top riser and folded his arms across his knees, resting his head on his arms and focusing on drawing in deep breaths.

"K-Kurt?"

Kurt looked up, startled, to find Rachel standing in the doorway. When he met her gaze, she hesitantly advanced into the room, her steps halting and uncertain, her book bag held in front of her, arms folded over it like a shield. As she reached him, she bit her lower lip, a troubled expression in her eyes.

"Rachel, if you're going to ask me if I'm okay again, please don't," Kurt sighed, burying his face in his arms again. "Please. I'm just sick of being the focus of everyone's attention…" He raised his head again, his shoulders falling with defeat as he shook his head, a sad smile passing his lips at the irony. "… and if you'd told me a month ago that I'd ever utter those words, I'd have thought you were out of your mind."

Rachel didn't even crack a smile – and when she spoke at last, her tone made Kurt's stomach clench uneasily, the feeling that there was something going on that he didn't know about intensifying as she sat down beside him and withdrew her laptop from her bag.

"Kurt – I don't know how to tell you this. There's just – there's something you should see…"

Kurt frowned, wondering immediately if there was some new news regarding his case. Maybe the guy had been caught – but then, that didn't explain everyone's strange behavior that day, or the way they'd guiltily looked away from him every time he'd accidentally met their eyes.

When Kurt saw Jacob Ben Israel's blog appear on Rachel's screen, his frown deepened.

"There's nothing on there that I want to see, Rachel," he declared. "That ignorant blog is pure garbage. Everyone knows…"

His voice trailed off as the latest video Jacob had posted began to play, and he recognized himself, walking purposefully down one of McKinley's hallways, Santana at his side. Once he was almost out of the shot, Jacob's face appeared, very close to the camera, his voice hushed and secretive as he began to speak.

"McKinley's resident home invasion survivor, Kurt Hummel, _appears_ to be taking his traumatic experience in stride, on his second day back at school after he and his father were held at gunpoint and robbed just a little over a week ago. But my sources tell me that it's all an act, folks – because there's more to Kurt's story than we've been led to believe – a _lot_ more."

Kurt's stomach twisted uncomfortably with dawning suspicion, and he raised one hand slowly to his mouth, unable to tear his gaze away from the video as Jacob made his way down the hall, stopping in front of the girls' bathroom.

"Just outside this very door yesterday afternoon, Kurt Hummel was overheard admitting that the robbers took more than the Hummels' mid-range electronics and petty cash reserves. No, as it turns out, the surviving robber, who remains at large, his whereabouts unknown, took an interest in a lot more than money or possessions…"

"The robber is not only guilty of robbery, dear viewers…" Jacob continued, and Kurt closed his eyes, unable to breathe, his blood rushing in his ears and almost – almost, but not quite – drowning out the killing blow as Jacob delivered it, as carelessly as he might have delivered the latest gossip about which jocks were dating which cheerleaders, "… but of _rape_, as well. Kurt Hummel was _raped._ That's the reason for the heavy guard duty his friends have been keeping over the past few days. That's the reason why the secrecy, why his name hasn't been released in the mainstream media…"

The rest of his words seemed to blend together, inaudible over the pounding of Kurt's own heart in his ears. The rest of his words didn't matter, anyway. The most awful, most devastating ones echoed over and over in Kurt's head.

_Kurt Hummel was raped… raped… RAPED…_

Rapid footsteps crossing the choir room floor drew Kurt's gaze up, and he barely registered Santana's furious face before she slammed Rachel's laptop closed, leaning over it to get right in Rachel's face.

"What the fuck is _wrong_ with you?" she demanded, her voice trembling with rage. "How could you _show _him this, Rachel? Are you _brain dead_?"

"He – he has the right to know what people are saying about him," Rachel insisted, rising to her feet, her voice trembling, defensive. "If it was me, I – I'd want to _know_…"

"Well, then you should just make the decision for _everyone,_ shouldn't you?" Santana sneered, taking another step toward Rachel.

"It's not true – is it?"

The sound of Finn's voice drew Kurt's attention, and his heart sank as he looked up to see his brother's stricken face, staring down at the closed laptop between the two girls. He slowly raised his eyes to look at Kurt, and Kurt had to look away, hot tears of humiliation welling up in his eyes and sliding down his face.

"That – that's not what happened," Finn persisted, stepping cautiously closer. "Is it? It didn't happen." His voice rose slightly as he repeated in horrified disbelief, "Tell me it _didn't happen_, Kurt!"

Suddenly, Kurt felt trapped, overwhelmed by the yelling and the pressure and the overpowering, devastating weight of the fact that now _everyone_ knew. He hadn't had the strength to tell his own brother, or any of his friends – had been humiliated at the very thought of any of his closest loved ones finding out – and now the _entire school_ knew what had happened to him. He stood up on the riser, shaking his head, covering his face with his hands and taking a backward step that put him against the wall.

"_Kurt_!" Finn's voice rose, sharp and insistent. "Kurt, _talk_ to me, man, did this happen? It's – it's _bullshit_, right?"

"Whatever it is, it has nothing to do with _you_, Hudson, so why don't you just back the fuck up?" Santana snarled, swiftly inserting herself between Kurt and Finn, the riser she was standing on giving her a few inches, and making her appear intimidating enough to make Finn take a step back. "Did you both just take all your stupid pills at once this morning?" Santana glared at Rachel and Finn in turn, crossing her arms over her chest. "Can't you idiots see what you've done?"

And then, they were all three looking at him, all three staring with varying expressions of fury and horror and sympathy, and Kurt just couldn't stand it. His arms were crossed over his torso, his face turned away, burning with the heat of shame as he tried to shut it out, tried to pretend this wasn't happening, because, _God_, this could _not_ be _happening_…

"Kurt, I'm so sorry," Rachel attempted, taking a step toward him, but halting abruptly when Santana stepped toward her with a challenging glare. "I – I didn't mean to…"

"_Please_," Kurt whispered, holding up a hand to ward them all off, his eyes focused on his feet, blurring with the tears that were streaming down his face. "Please, just – just _don't_ – don't touch me, don't…"

He glanced up with alarm when he caught movement in the doorway out of the corner of his eye – but felt some relief when he saw that it was just Brittany. She was staring between the four people gathered in the room, silently taking in Santana's fury, Rachel and Finn's guilt and shock, and Kurt's quiet, devastated sobs.

After only a moment's hesitation, Brittany moved swiftly and decisively across the room, climbing the risers, past the other three, to simply fold her arms around Kurt in a gentle, protective embrace.

If anyone else had touched him in that moment, Kurt was pretty sure he would have lost it.

But it was _Brittany_, innocent and loving, with no motive but to comfort him – and Kurt found himself melting into her embrace, lowering his head onto her shoulder and crying quietly as she ran a gentle hand slowly up and down his back.

His secret was out.

Everyone knew what had happened to him – and he wasn't ready, didn't think he'd _ever_ have been ready to face that – but he had no choice now. He felt sick, wanted to die, wanted to go home and hide in his room and never come out again.

"Sometimes when I'm really scared or really sad," Brittany whispered, her breath soft and sweet against his ear, "I pretend I'm not there. Maybe – maybe that would help."

It was as good advice as any, so Kurt did – hiding his face against Brittany's shoulder and closing his eyes and trying to just shut it all out.


	20. Chapter 20

"Are you _happy _now?" Santana demanded, glaring up at Finn with a protective fury that was truly frightening in her eyes. "Look at what you've _done_ to him!"

"I-I didn't – _do_ anything!" Finn insisted, his voice trembling with frustrated emotion. "I just wanted to _know_…"

He looked uneasily past her to take in the sight of his little brother, sobbing quietly into Brittany's shoulder, visibly trembling even from the distance the risers gave him – distance that Kurt shouldn't have had to feel he needed, not from his own brother.

_Kurt's already scared enough, _Finn realized in an abrupt moment of clarity that broke through his shock and horror at what he'd just learned. _The last thing he needs is me up in his face yelling at him._

"Look, I – I'm _sorry_," he admitted at last with a shaky sigh, raking his hand through his hair as he paced away a couple of steps and then back again in agitation. "I didn't mean to – to freak him out so much, but – but why didn't he _tell _me…?"

"He doesn't have to tell you _shit_, Hudson!" Santana snapped. "Whatever happened to Kurt, it's _his business_…"

"I'm his _brother_…"

"Nooo," Santana sneered slowly, her eyes narrowed and lips twisting into a cruel smile that made Finn brace himself for the verbal brutality he knew she was about to dish out. "You're the brainless, knuckle-dragging Neanderthal who happens to live down the hall from him. That doesn't make you family, any more than it gives you the right to demand the most intimate details of the worst night of his life. If he doesn't exactly feel like baring his soul to you on demand, I'm really not surprised."

"No, that's…" Finn shook his head, raising one hand to press against his eyes, trying to somehow regain control of both the conversation and his careening emotions. "… that's not what I meant…"

"Come on, Britt." Santana cut him off, spinning dismissively away from him. "Let's get Kurt home. He doesn't need to be here when the rest of the glee club comes in."

Finn followed them out into the hall, but didn't protest as Brittany and Santana ushered Kurt out between them, leading him away toward the exit. He wasn't openly crying anymore, but he looked absolutely wrecked, pale and disheveled and barely even moving under his own power, as they disappeared around the corner.

Finn felt like he should _do_ something – but on the other hand, he realized, his heart sinking, it seemed like he'd already done more than enough.

"Hey, what's up with Kurt?"

Puck's voice drew Finn out of his thoughts, and he looked up to see Puck standing just beyond him, stopped in the doorway to the choir room and frowning down the hallway at the place where Kurt, Brittany, and Santana had just been. Puck turned his gaze to Finn, then, and his frown deepened.

"Forget that. What's up with _you_, dude? You okay?"

"I'm fine, I just… Kurt…" Finn found himself stumbling over his words, and alarmed to abruptly be fighting back an extremely unmanly display of emotion. "J-Jacob's blog. Have you seen it?"

"No." Puck shook his head, confused. "What…?"

Rachel appeared in the doorway at the moment, without a word handing her laptop over to Puck and advancing past him to her boyfriend's side, her dark eyes wide and worried.

"Finn?"

Finn closed his eyes at the familiar, soothing feeling of Rachel's soft, warm hand on his arm. It was reassuring, comforting – and at the moment, felt completely undeserved. His throat felt thick and his eyes burned, and his mind, his entire _world_, was still spinning, tilting under the weight of the devastating revelation he'd just heard of what had _really _happened to Kurt that night.

Jacob's voice echoed from the tinny speakers of Rachel's laptop, and Finn tried to shut it out, tried not to think about how _Kurt_ must have felt, hearing such a callous, sensationalized version of what was so unbelievably private – his most humiliating, painful moments laid bare for the whole world to see.

Puck was leaning against the wall by the choir room door, holding the laptop and watching it intently with a troubled expression on his face. Out of the corner of his eye, Finn saw Puck slowly slide down the wall to crouch on the floor, bracing the laptop against his knees, his mouth falling open slightly in shock, his eyes wide. His voice was soft and disbelieving, as he finally closed the laptop, staring blankly at the wall across from him.

"_Shit_."

Finn couldn't find the strength or focus to acknowledge Puck's shock. All he could think about was the devastation he'd seen on Kurt's face a few moments earlier.

"Finn… it's okay," Rachel tried again to assure him, her voice cautious and hesitant. "You didn't know…"

"I – I really screwed up," Finn argued quietly, his voice hoarse and trembling. "That's the last way I should have reacted…"

"You're not the only one," Rachel offered softly, her hand on his arm squeezing gently. "I – I just thought he should _know._ I'd have wanted to, and – and it was too much, like that. I shouldn't have shown him that video…"

"How did Jacob know?" Finn wondered aloud, before looking at her sharply. "Did _you_ know? Who else…?"

"No, I didn't." Rachel's eyes widened at the unintentional accusation he knew had been in his voice, and probably on his face as well. "Not until today, when – when everyone was talking about Jacob's blog, and – and I saw it, and – well, I kind of wondered, but – I didn't _know._" She was quiet for a moment, looking away, before she added softly, "I thought there was – something he wasn't telling everybody, but – but I didn't know it was _this_."

Finn looked away again, pressing his forefinger and thumb against his eyes, feeling suddenly very self-conscious and overwhelmed as the cheerful voices of several more members of New Directions reached his ears. He glanced down the hall for a moment, then down at Puck again, still crouched with his back against the wall, a stricken look on his face.

The others were coming for practice, and Puck was going to want more of an explanation, and Rachel was going to want some kind of comfort and reassurance – and Finn didn't want to face them, _any_ of them – didn't want to try to guess how much they knew, or when they'd found out, or what they were thinking now about his little brother and what he'd been through.

"I-I have to go," he blurted out abruptly, turning toward Rachel. "Tell Mr. Shue I – it's a family emergency. Just – I need to go home right now." He was quiet for a moment, his chest aching as he met Rachel's questioning gaze and concluded softly, "One missed practice doesn't matter. Kurt – my – my little brother needs me."

He wasn't sure, afterwards, exactly how he got home – but the next thing Kurt knew, he was huddled on the new used sofa in his living room, his legs drawn up under him, covered in a soft, fleecy afghan and trying to sleep.

Later, when he thought about it, he was pretty sure Santana must have driven him, because Finn hadn't driven to school that morning – and he was pretty sure she wouldn't have let Finn near him at the moment, anyway. Also, whenever Kurt finally started to focus on his surroundings again, he realized that the house was quiet and mostly empty, with both Burt and Carole still at work.

In the quiet stillness, there was nothing left to shut out Kurt's thoughts – and he had to face the truth.

_It – it really happened._

_Jacob Ben Israel – heard me and Santana talking, and – and he told everyone. The entire school knows now, and – and there's nothing I can do about it. _

_And I have to face them tomorrow. And the day after that. And the day after that._

"Kurt?"

Kurt looked up toward the sound of Finn's quiet, subdued voice, not quite meeting his brother's eyes, but waiting silently for him to go on. Finn waited until he was standing directly in front of Kurt, and then crouched down on one knee in front of him, bringing them face to face.

"Kurt, I – I'm really sorry."

Kurt bit his lower lip, nodding in quiet acceptance. "I know," he acknowledged softly. "You – didn't do anything wrong, Finn. I know – I know it was – a shock…"

"Yeah," Finn sighed, relief clear in his voice. "Yeah, it was. And – and I wasn't – mad at you, or anything. I think Santana thought – but I wasn't. I just – didn't know how to _take _that, and…"

"I know," Kurt gently cut him off, finally making himself look up to meet Finn's eyes. "I know you didn't mean to – to scare me. I – I accept your apology, Finn. There's no need to explain. I should have…" His voice trailed off, and he shook his head, looking away. "No, I – I'm not going to say I should have told you. I – shouldn't have had to tell _anyone_…"

"I know." Finn's tone darkened, and Kurt looked up at him warily to see anger in his eyes. "Kurt – I just got off the phone with Puck, and – and he and Mike and I – we're gonna take care of Jacob, Kurt. Gonna make sure he knows better than to pull that kind of crap again. We're gonna deal with him." He paused, the hint of a rueful smile on his lips as he shrugged. "You know – whatever's left of him after Santana gets through with him, anyway."

Kurt felt as if he should have told Finn not to do it, should have asked him to leave Jacob alone – but he couldn't bring himself to be so generous at the moment. He didn't respond at all, just stared down at the blanket that covered the lower half of his body, picking at it listlessly.

"I just – I don't know what to do," he whispered at last. "I – I don't know how to walk in there tomorrow and – and everybody _knows_, and…"

"It's none of their business, Kurt." Finn's voice hardened. "Anybody who says anything is an idiot. It's not like it's _your_ fault that creep…" His voice trailed off, and when Kurt glanced up at him, he was looking away, flushed and self-conscious. "Anyway," Finn concluded at last, a bit awkwardly, "it's not like _you've _got anything to be ashamed of."

Kurt knew in his head that it was true – but it didn't _feel_ true at all.

Just when he was beginning to think that Finn was going to stay there, all awkward and self-conscious with nothing else to say, but not wanting to leave him alone until their parents got home – the doorbell rang.

Finn let out an audible breath of relief, standing up and hurrying off to answer it.

A few moments later, Finn appeared in the living room doorway again, a strangely wary expression on his face. Kurt sat up a little, trying to see past him into the hallway.

"So, um… I know you're resting and all, and – maybe not up for company, but – I'm pretty sure you'd want to see _this_ person, so…"

Kurt frowned, opening his mouth to protest that he didn't want to see anyone at all – but the protest died in his throat, when Finn stepped out of the way, revealing the much smaller figure who stood in the doorway, hands folded anxiously in front of himself, a timid, almost shy smile on his face.

Kurt's heart stuttered in his chest for a moment, his breath catching in his throat.

"_Blaine…_"

Kurt's mouth was suddenly dry, his palms damp, as all at once he felt incredibly self-conscious. He wanted to kill Finn for letting Blaine in without asking him, for putting him in this position with no warning. It'd been weeks since he'd talked to Blaine, and this was not how he'd envisioned them meeting again. He wasn't even sure if he'd intended for them to meet again _at all. _Kurt's face flushed with embarrassment as he remembered all the calls and texts he'd ignored, and braced himself for Blaine's reaction.

But – Blaine didn't really seem angry, at all.

Blaine seemed – _nervous_.

He was fidgeting with the end of his scarf in front of him, his eyes focused on the floor as he took a halting, uncertain step further into the room.

"H-hi, Kurt." Blaine's voice was quiet and cautious, as he slowly advanced, closing the distance between them.

Kurt rose to his feet, putting aside the blanket, crossing his arms over his chest in an unconsciously defensive gesture.

"Blaine – I… I didn't mean to…"

"Wait." Blaine held up a hand in a halting gesture, glancing up to meet Kurt's eyes with a pleading expression before looking away, his gaze settling uncertainly on Finn, who was leaning in the doorway, just protectively watching. "I-I know you don't really want to talk to me right now, even though I – I don't really know why – if I _did _something or – or what, and you don't have to tell me, but – _please_ just let me say this before you kick me out of your house, okay? Because if I don't say it now, I never will."

Kurt blinked, startled, lips parted to protest and explain that Blaine hadn't done anything wrong – but Blaine's eyes were downcast again, and he didn't see.

And he hadn't yet stopped for breath.

"Kurt – I like you," he blurted out abruptly – and all thought of protest immediately fled Kurt's mind. Blaine's words came faster, trembling and uncertain, as he continued, eyes locked onto the floor as if terrified to see Kurt's reaction. "I – I really like you, Kurt. I have for a long time now. And – I know I sometimes come on too strong, and maybe I've pushed you away, and you're obviously dealing with some family stuff and I didn't even know about it, which is probably because I talk too much and don't listen enough and I'm – doing that. Right now. But – but Kurt…"

Blaine looked up at last, dread and hope mingled in his eyes as he earnestly met Kurt's gaze.

"I _really _like you. And – and if you like me back, or – or if you don't – if you just need a friend – I want to be there for you. That's all. I just want to be there for you. So – you can ask me to leave now, if you want." Blaine swallowed hard, glancing away for just a moment before meeting Kurt's eyes again, his voice soft and pleading. "But – please don't."

Kurt just stared at Blaine for a long moment, trying to process what he'd just said – and as it gradually sank in, he found himself overwhelmed by the cruel irony that it was _now_ of all times that Blaine had finally decided to confess his feelings for him – now when he was so irreparably damaged, and when everyone in the entire world was going to _know_ it, and Blaine couldn't _possibly_ know what he was getting into, wanting to get involved with Kurt at all.

All at once, it was just too much – and Kurt abruptly burst into tears.

"Kurt?" Blaine's voice was bewildered as Kurt sank back down onto the couch, covering his face with his hands. A moment later, it was much closer, and Kurt felt the depression of the sofa beside him as Blaine sat down. "Kurt – what is it? What did I say?"

Kurt shook his head, wanting to tell Blaine that it wasn't his fault, but unable to find words. The feeling of Blaine's tentative hand, warm and reassuring on his back, only made it harder to control his emotions.

"Kurt," Blaine said softly, his hand running slowly, soothingly up and down Kurt's back. "Hey, come on… it's okay. It's okay. What's – why are you crying?"

"Hey, dude," Finn spoke up at last, and Kurt could tell by the sound of his voice that he was now much closer than the doorway. "Why don't we give him a minute? Come here. Let's talk."

When Kurt felt Blaine retreat, he looked up sharply at Finn, alarmed to see him leading Blaine away with a gentle but firm grip on his arm. Finn caught Kurt's eye and shook his head slightly, and Kurt easily read the silent reassurance in the gesture – the promise that Finn would not share his secret with Blaine.

Not that it made any difference.

Kurt's heart sank with an undeniable realization, and he buried his face in his hands, struggling to stem the flow of his tears, despite the fact that the despairing course of his thoughts only made him want to cry harder.

_He's here… and he wants to _be_ with me._

Now._ Now of all times, Blaine actually wants to be with me – but I just – just _can't_. I can't, and if he only knew, he wouldn't want to be with me, anyway. _

_And who am I kidding? He already knows that something's terribly wrong._

_If he really likes me like he says he does… and he drove here from Dalton just to be here for me… _

… _he's not going to leave without some answers._


	21. Chapter 21

At first, when Kurt wouldn't take any of his calls, Blaine just assumed he was having a busy weekend at home.

After all, they saw each other all week, every week at Dalton. It wasn't as if Kurt had even had time to miss him yet, and his friends in Lima only got him for what little time they could manage to kidnap him away from his family. Between hanging out with his former glee club and adjusting to his new blended family, it was completely understandable that Kurt would be too busy to take Blaine's calls.

Or send him a text back.

Or anything.

Blaine told himself all of that repeatedly that weekend, reminding himself that he had no right to have hurt feelings just because he wasn't Kurt's first priority when he was at home.

By Monday morning, however, Blaine was restless and vaguely anxious and very relieved to know that he'd see Kurt in the second period French class they shared. It was a new school week, and Kurt would be back at Dalton, and everything would be back to a reassuring state of normal.

Except, it wasn't.

Blaine slipped his phone from his pocket and sent off a couple of painstakingly casual texts under the cover of his desk, while casting worried glances in the direction of Kurt's empty seat next to his. He was unsurprised, and increasingly worried, when those texts went unanswered. At last, Blaine allowed himself to consider the possibility that maybe there was a reason for Kurt's shutting him out – something beyond mere distraction.

_Did I_ do _something?_ he wondered. _Say something that offended him?_

But as hard as he tried, Blaine couldn't think of anything he might have done to make Kurt angry enough to write him off completely. Though, when he thought about it, things _had _been a bit awkward and uncertain for the couple of days following Valentine's Day, when Kurt had admitted his feelings for Blaine, and Blaine had put him off. Kurt had acted as if he was fine with it, but Blaine knew deep down that he could have done a lot better than the cringingly clichéd "don't want to ruin our friendship" spiel he'd given Kurt at the Lima Bean.

Problem was – it was actually the _truth_.

Blaine wasn't blind. Kurt was the cutest guy he'd seen since he'd started going to Dalton, and his obvious crush was both flattering and intriguing. He couldn't deny that he was attracted to Kurt, and had more than once allowed himself to imagine what it might be like to have Kurt as his boyfriend. But more than anything, during the past few months, Kurt had become Blaine's best friend. The last thing he wanted was for them to start dating, have it all fall apart, and end up having lost Kurt completely.

Except it was soon obvious that that was what was happening, anyway – when Kurt's parents showed up at Dalton to pick up his things.

Blaine was not so arrogant and narcissistic as to believe that Kurt would actually _leave Dalton_ because of him. All they would tell him in the office was that Kurt had withdrawn due to "personal issues", and Blaine had no reason not to believe that was true. But Kurt _had_ to be angry with him about _something_ – or else why wouldn't he return Blaine's calls, if only to say goodbye?

Blaine had waited too long to figure out what he really felt for Kurt – and now, it was too late. Kurt had apparently given up on being anything more than friends with him – or even friends at all, for that matter.

Blaine kept trying desperately to reach Kurt, wanting some kind of reassurance that he was wrong – that even though Kurt was leaving Dalton, they would still be able to see each other, still be able to remain friends – but after the weekend, he was increasingly sure that Kurt had no desire for that to happen – no desire, anymore, for _anything _to happen between them.

After a few days, Blaine started to feel like a bit of a stalker, so he stopped calling. It took a few days longer for him to stop texting as well, resigning himself to the loss of his friendship with the beautiful boy who'd become so much a part of his life.

But missing Kurt just _hurt _too much.

Blaine found that as hurt as he was, he couldn't allow himself to give up so easily. What was he so afraid of, anyway? Losing Kurt? That was already done, wasn't it? He could do nothing, and lose Kurt without a fight – or he could _try_, and maybe lose him anyway…or maybe not.

At least he'd know he'd _tried_.

He'd rehearsed his speech to Kurt over and over during the drive from Westerville, until he knew exactly what to say and how to say it. There was a strong chance that Kurt would still be angry about – whatever he'd been angry about to begin with. After all, Blaine still hadn't heard from him. But if he did, at least Blaine could take comfort in the fact that he'd given it his all.

Of course, the moment he _saw_ Kurt, all Blaine's careful planning flew out the window, and he forgot everything he'd meant to say, and what came pouring out was far less and far more than he'd intended. Blaine's heart sank with disappointment, and he braced himself for all of Kurt's possible reactions to his pathetic attempt to win back his affections. Yelling, disgust, laughter – all were distinct possibilities, given his utter failure.

The last thing he'd expected was Kurt's _tears_.

"What is it?" he asked softly, cautiously sitting down at Kurt's side and reaching out a hand to run tentatively up and down his back.

It wasn't the first time he'd offered such physical comfort to Kurt when he was in tears. There had been quite a lot of tears over the past few months – over the vicious bullying Kurt had experienced, and leaving his family and friends, and struggling to adjust to life at Dalton. Of course, this was different. If Kurt didn't even want to _talk_ to him, then Blaine wasn't exactly sure Kurt wanted to be _touched_ by him, either.

"Kurt – what's wrong?" he gently urged his friend. "_Tell_ me…"

"Hey, dude. Come on." The tall boy who'd let him in – Kurt's stepbrother… Finn, wasn't it? – was now standing at his side, a hand on his shoulder to pull him away from Kurt. "Let's give him a minute to himself, okay? Let's go in the other room and talk."

Blaine hesitated. He wanted to object, wanted nothing more than to stay with Kurt – but the other boy was insistent, and he was Kurt's _brother_, right? So he probably knew better than Blaine what was going on with Kurt lately – what he _needed_.

_He knows what happened… probably knows why Kurt's upset…_

That was really the main reason that Blaine complied. Reluctantly, he left the room with Finn, who waited until the kitchen door was closed behind them, glancing anxiously toward it for a moment as if afraid that Kurt might follow, before turning back toward Blaine with a sympathetic grimace.

"He's going through a really hard time, man," he explained in a hushed, apologetic tone. "It's not you. It's just – what did he tell you about what happened?"

Blaine shook his head, biting his lower lip. "He, um – he hasn't been… talking to me, exactly…"

"Oh." Finn winced, looking away from Blaine awkwardly. "That sucks, dude. I – I didn't know that."

Blaine cringed inwardly, suddenly sure that this information would convince Finn that maybe he shouldn't tell Blaine anything, maybe he shouldn't have let Blaine into the house _at all_, not if all he was going to do was put the moves on his little brother when he was obviously going through a terrible time.

_Please don't keep it from me, please don't kick me out, please just_ tell me…

"But look, man," Finn continued, "if he hasn't been calling you, I'm pretty sure it isn't you. I mean – Kurt and his dad were robbed at gunpoint a couple of weeks ago, and well – he kinda hasn't been talking much to _anyone_, you know?"

"Kurt was – _what_?" Blaine stared up at Finn in horror, taking an automatic step toward the kitchen door. "Oh my God, is he okay…?"

"No, wait a minute." Finn stopped him with a hand on his arm, pulling him back. "Just – I'm pretty sure he wouldn't want you to see him like this, dude. I mean – if he hasn't been talking to you or calling or whatever, well – I know it's not because he doesn't like you." Finn's eyes widened suddenly, and he added abruptly, "I mean – not that he _does_ like you."

Blaine's heart sank. "He doesn't like me?"

"No, he likes you!" Finn insisted. "He just – it's not like he _told_ me he likes you, or anything. I mean…" Finn stopped for a moment, visibly flustered, before blurting out in a rush, "Kurt _absolutely didn't_ tell me that he doesn't not like you."

Blaine blinked and shook his head a little, unspeakably confused.

Finn sighed. "I should just… stop talking… now."

Deciding to try to make sense of Finn's multiple negatives later, Blaine looked longingly toward the kitchen door again. "Well, maybe I should just try to talk to him…"

"I think you should give him a minute," Finn advised, considering for a moment before suggesting, "Let _me_ go talk to him. Wait here."

When Finn went back into the living room, Kurt was still sitting where he'd been on the couch, leaning forward, his elbows resting on his knees and his hands extended in front of him. He was quiet and appeared to be calmer, but as Finn reached him, he could see that he was trembling. He crouched down in front of Kurt, bracing one elbow on the arm of the sofa and studying Kurt's tear-streaked face. Kurt looked up at him, eyes red-rimmed, a bleak attempt at a smile on his lips.

"Hey," Finn said in a mild, casual tone. "You okay?"

Kurt shook his head slowly, looking away. He was quiet for a moment before confessing softly, "He doesn't know what happened to me." He looked up at Finn again, his eyes flooded with fresh tears. "What's he going to think of me when he finds out? Why would he ever want to be with me now?"

"If he thinks _anything_ of _you _when he finds out, then he's not good enough for you anyway," Finn pointed out, feeling a rush of protective affection for his new little brother. "And if he knows what's good for him, he won't give you any crap about it." He paused a moment before adding firmly, "And anyway, it's not like he even has to know."

Kurt had just had all choice taken away from him when it came to keeping the biggest, most painful secret of his entire life, and Finn would be damned if he'd let _this _choice be taken from him too.

"You decide how much you want him to know, and – that's all he _needs_ to know. Okay?"

Kurt nodded, sniffling, and reached out a cautious, shaking hand to rest on Finn's on the arm of the sofa. "Th-thank you," he whispered.

Finn shrugged. He really hadn't done anything. He considered for a moment before cautiously proceeding.

"But – you _do_ like him, right? I mean, you told me a while back…"

Kurt nodded again, staring down at his lap, clearly miserable. "Yeah," he whispered. "That – hasn't changed."

Finn nodded slowly, taking that in. "Then – I think you _do _need to tell him _something_. Not – not what happened, necessarily, or – or anything more than you want to, but – he drove all the way here from Dalton just to see you, and – I'm pretty sure that means he likes you too."

"Yeah." Kurt's eyes widened, and he looked up at Finn as if just remembering the point of Blaine's little speech a few minutes earlier. "That and the fact that he – basically just declared his feelings for me in the middle of our living room."

Encouraged by Kurt's focus on something that was _not_ related to his recent trauma, Finn smiled. "Yeah. There's also that. I guess there's not really much question about how _he_ feels. And – you feel it, too, so – whatever you decide you're comfortable saying to him, the only thing I really know is – you can't just let him walk away."


	22. Chapter 22

Blaine paced back and forth across the Hudson-Hummels' kitchen floor for a few minutes before having a seat at the table. He was too restless to stay there for long, though, and was up and pacing again a few moments later. Frustrated, he turned to face the kitchen door again, running his hand through his hair and biting his lower lip, fighting the impulse to ignore Finn's advice and go back out to the living room, where Kurt was.

Finally, he let out a shaky sigh and turned toward the back door, the fading sunlight just beyond it seeming to mock him with its cheery invitation – because he clearly was _not_ welcome here.

_Coming here was a mistake. He hasn't come in here yet, because he wishes I wasn't here at all. I should just go…_

"Hey."

Blaine's hand froze on the doorknob, his heart clenching in his chest at the sound of the familiar voice – hoarse and shaky and weak as he'd ever heard it, but still unmistakably Kurt's. Blaine turned to face him, suddenly nervous and self-conscious when faced with Kurt's intent, searching gaze. Kurt's eyes drifted down from Blaine's face to focus on the spot where his hand connected with the doorknob, and a slow swallow was visible in his throat before he looked up to meet Blaine's eyes again, quiet and composed.

"You're leaving?"

"I – was going to," Blaine admitted, staring down at the floor, feeling suddenly guilty. "I – I thought you – didn't want to talk to me." He hesitated a moment before looking up at Kurt again and adding softly, "Like – ever again."

Kurt winced, biting his lower lip and shaking his head slightly. "About that. Blaine, I'm so sorry…"

Immediately, Blaine felt like a tremendous jerk. Kurt had just been through what had to be the worst ordeal of his life, and here he was worrying about_ him_, apologizing as if in the midst of such trauma, his first concern should have been making sure he didn't _hurt Blaine's feelings_.

"No," Blaine sighed, letting go of the doorknob and crossing the room toward Kurt. "No, _I'm_ sorry, Kurt. That – that wasn't fair…"

"Yeah, well," Kurt shrugged, his voice flat, his gaze averted as he sank into the kitchen chair Blaine had left pulled out a few moments earlier, "neither was leaving you wondering what you'd done to piss me off for two weeks while I worked things out – or you know, didn't. Because _nothing_ is worked out."

He was quiet for a moment, staring down at the table as Blaine hesitantly closed the rest of the distance between them and took the seat across from him. Finally, Kurt looked up, and this close, Blaine could see the tears in his red-rimmed eyes, the red blotches on his face that revealed how recently he'd been crying, and crying hard. Kurt's expression and voice were bleak, filled with a heavy resignation, when at last he spoke again.

"How much did Finn tell you?"

"He said – you and your dad were robbed. And – and it's been hard for you, but you're – dealing with it. That's it. That's all he said." Blaine hesitated before adding, "That – that's _horrible_, Kurt. I'm – so sorry that happened to you, and I feel like such a jerk for thinking you were mad at me and worrying about why you weren't talking to me, when all this time you were – were going through so much, and I just…" Blaine shook his head, momentarily at a loss, before looking up at Kurt again and earnestly continuing, "Really, Kurt, if you just need to be alone – just need some space, I get that. If you need me to go away again, I will. I mean – just – whatever you need, Kurt…"

As he spoke, Blaine reached out across the table to touch Kurt's hand – and froze when Kurt flinched, drawing his hand abruptly away and placing it in his lap, well out of Blaine's reach. Blaine tried to conceal the automatic jolt of hurt he felt at Kurt's reaction, looking away and swallowing hard.

"I – I know I just sprang this whole – me having feelings for you thing on you out of nowhere," he admitted at last, struggling to get the words out past the knot in his throat. "And – I was an idiot about this before, when you – when you told me you liked me, and – Kurt, I'm just – I'm really sorry. I'm doing this all wrong. I shouldn't have just assumed…"

"No." Kurt's voice was tired and sad, as he cut Blaine off with a quiet sigh, shaking his head. "No, it's – it's not you. I-I'm _glad _you came."

His tone – in combination with the previous weeks of ignored calls and texts – was less than convincing.

"It's just that – Finn's right," Kurt continued. "The past couple of weeks have been – really hard." His voice was hoarse, trembling slightly. "And – I want to tell you – something. About – what happened to me, but…" He stopped abruptly, frowning and shaking his head again. "No, I don't _want_ to tell you, but – but I _have_ to tell you – but I-I don't think I know how…"

_Well._ That _clarified absolutely nothing._

Blaine kept his tone gentle and understanding, well aware that, whether or not it was him that had Kurt so spooked at the moment, Kurt was nevertheless a few poorly placed words or a single sudden move away from bolting for the door, and locking himself away again for who knew _how_ long.

"Okay," he ventured finally, cautiously. "You don't _have_ to, Kurt. You don't have to tell me _anything_ if you don't want to…"

"The thing is," Kurt objected softly, with a bitter smile, "I kind of do. Because at this point, you're pretty much the only person in my whole entire world who _doesn't_ know."

More confused than ever, Blaine fell back on the only response he knew could not be wrong in this situation – or pretty much _any_ situation.

"Whatever you need, Kurt," he said softly. "I – I just want to be here for you in – in whatever way you'll let me. Whether or not you like me back right now or not – that doesn't matter at all. Not right now."

Blaine was quiet for a moment, hoping despite his words for some indication of Kurt's reaction; but Kurt just continued to stare flatly down at the table, leaving him disappointed – so he tried again.

"I just – I just want you to let me be your friend – to be there for you."

Kurt didn't react at all for a long moment, staring down at the table between them, before finally meeting Blaine's eyes with a sad, tearful smile.

"It's funny," he replied at last, his voice barely more than a whisper. "That's what _everyone _seems to want right now. And – I don't think I know how to let them. It's just – it's too much." His smile faded, his eyes solemn and honest as he conceded at last, "I can try. I – I _will_ try. But – I can't make any promises."

He looked away again, and his last, heartbroken words tore at Blaine's emotions, reinforcing his rising dread and certainty that there was far more to the story than he'd been told thus far.

"It's just… right now… it's all I can do to just keep on _breathing_."

Blaine swallowed hard, struck by the sheer desperation in Kurt's hoarse, broken voice, and resisted the urge to reach out to him once again, his hand instead clenching into a frustratingly useless fist in his lap.

"What – what can I do, Kurt?" he whispered at last, studying Kurt's face across the table and willing him to meet his gaze. "What do you need me to do?"

Kurt was quiet for a long time, shaking his head slightly, visibly at a loss. Finally, he replied softly, "I just – I need a little time. To – to get my head together. I – I _am_ glad you're here, but – I wasn't – r-ready to – to _talk _to you about this, and – can you – can you come back? Tomorrow, maybe?"

"Yes," Blaine replied immediately, nodding emphatically as he rose to his feet. "Yes, I can do that. Whatever you need me to do. I just – I'll get out of your way and – and give you some space, and – and if tomorrow's not long enough, just call me, okay? Or text. Or _something. Please_, but…"

"I will," Kurt promised, reaching out suddenly to catch Blaine's hand and momentarily stilling him just as he was about to back toward the door. He looked up, and his blue eyes were bright and shimmering with tears. "I – I _want _you to come back, Blaine. I really do."

Blaine stared down at Kurt's hand, soft and warm and surprisingly strong, and swallowed back the knot in the back of his throat. His relief at the unexpected contact, at the fact that even though Kurt was asking him to go, he was also asking him to _come back again_ – it was nearly overwhelming.

Suddenly, Blaine was the one who needed a moment.

"I'll see you tomorrow, then," he whispered, squeezing Kurt's hand gently before letting it go, turning, and heading toward the door.

It was terribly difficult for Burt Hummel to go back to work that week.

He knew he had to provide for his family. He wouldn't be doing his son any favors by losing his customer base, and with it the ability to pay their bills and keep a roof over their heads. And after the robbery, their resources were greatly depleted; he had to do something to make up for the loss. So, when Kurt said he was ready to go back to school, Burt decided that he would just have to be ready to go back to work, too.

But he wasn't.

He spent his days distracted, worrying, wondering how Kurt's day was going, whether or not he was safe, whether he'd made a terrible mistake in sending Kurt back to school so soon.

_Or at all. Locking him in his room has to be a legitimate option in _some_ cultures, right?_

A few days back on the job hadn't managed to ease his worry at all, and Burt still sighed with relief when he finally headed home Wednesday afternoon.

If not for his very reliable staff, the day would have been a complete disaster. As it was, they'd managed to catch two separate mistakes he'd made that would have cost his customers days longer without their vehicles, and his business thousands of dollars in replacement parts.

_Yeah… gonna have to give those guys a raise…_

The stress of being back at work, in combination with his worry over Kurt, had Burt in a state of sheer exhaustion by the time he reached his front door – and it immediately became clear that he couldn't rest yet, when he was met just inside the door by his very flustered, anxious stepson.

"Burt, I'm so glad you're here! Kurt won't come out of his room, and he just keeps crying, and he _screamed_ at me to go away, and you know he can be freakin' _scary_ when he's mad, right?"

Burt's heart sank; Kurt had always been emotional, but these past two weeks, his emotional responses had seemed to careen violently between an unsettling state of numbness, and uncontrollable tears. It wasn't exactly surprising, but it still broke his heart to think that Kurt was hurting so much, and that there was so little he could do about it.

Finn's eyes were wide and worried as he babbled on, "But we can't just leave him down there crying like that, right? Because he'll get dehydrated or something. I mean, he's been down there like an hour, ever since Blaine left…"

Burt frowned. "Blaine was here?"

A rush of mingled, indistinguishable feelings came over him with that simple revelation. He had yet to meet the boy that Kurt hadn't stopped talking about since he'd first gone to Dalton, which was a relief in a way, because he still wasn't quite sure he was ready to think about the idea of his baby having a boyfriend and going on dates with that boyfriend in his car and that boyfriend no doubt wanting and _trying_ to do all the things he'd always tried to get away with when _he_ was someone's boyfriend back in high school.

Despite his apprehensions, however, Burt actually felt a sense of resentment and anger towards the boy, for taking so long to show up when Kurt was clearly going through such a hard time. And yeah, Kurt had told him that Blaine wanted to be "just friends", but wouldn't a good friend actually care enough to come by and make sure Kurt was okay once he knew that Kurt had been through such a terrible ordeal?

And surely he knew, at least about the robbery. The way Kurt talked about Blaine, it seemed as if he told him everything.

So why was he _just now_ finding time to show up and be there for Kurt?

_Because he's not_ good _enough for Kurt. That's why._

"… said he's going to come back tomorrow, I guess because Kurt wasn't really talking to him much because of what happened at school today, and I've never _seen_ him so upset, and I really think you need to…"

Oh. Right. Finn was still talking.

Burt's frown deepened, warning signals sparking in the back of his mind as some of the almost frantic words his stepson was pouring out actually registered.

"Wait, slow down, Finn." Burt held up a hand for a moment to halt him, before placing that hand on Finn's shoulder in a steadying gesture. "Slow down a minute. _What_ happened at school today?"

And in the next few moments, the story that Finn told him made Burt feel sick, and then furious enough to want to knock the crap out of a boy no older than his own son, and then sick again, as he imagined Kurt's stricken face, the humiliation he must have felt, at the vicious revelation of what was so deeply, agonizingly personal, against his will and without any chance for him to prepare or to figure out how to deal with the fact that all at once, every single person that he knew… _knew_.

Finn was still talking, but Burt was no longer listening. He was vaguely aware of Finn's words slowly trailing off as he stepped past him without a word, heading toward the basement door.


	23. Chapter 23

As Burt descended the stairs to Kurt's basement bedroom, he was surprised to be met with only silence. Finn had made it sound as if Kurt was practically in hysterics – but instead, Burt found his son huddled in his bed, facing him, buried under soft blankets up to his neck, silent and staring at the wall.

It made Burt's heart ache to see him like that. He almost thought he'd have _preferred _hysterics.

Kurt's eyes flickered to his father for just an instant as Burt reached the bottom of the stairs, but then he looked away, focusing on the wall again. Burt drew in a deep breath, squaring his shoulders and bracing himself. He sympathized with Finn, he really did – because he knew that Kurt could be unbearably stubborn, and if he didn't want to talk, well… anyone attempting to _force_ him to did so at peril of their own lives. Though Kurt was quiet now, Burt could clearly imagine the rage he must have displayed when Finn had tried to comfort him before – and Burt didn't exactly relish the idea of having that rage aimed in his direction.

"Hey."

Burt spoke in a soft, casual voice, hands in his pockets as he cautiously approached the bed. Kurt's body was curled into a near fetal position, leaving a round hollow on the mattress beside him. Burt hesitated a moment before nodding toward the spot and speaking again, his tone carefully neutral.

"Mind if I have a seat?"

Kurt's gaze shifted downward, and he shook his head, scooting over a little on the mattress to make more room.

Well. _That_ was a good sign.

Burt sat down beside his son, careful not to shift the mattress too much. Kurt's body was beginning to heal, and the pain medications he'd been given at the hospital kept the worst of his soreness at bay. Still, he was sensitive to any jarring movement, and would sometimes simply move too quickly, and end up biting back a cry of pain.

Kurt probably thought Burt didn't notice, and Burt was content to let him go on thinking so, to salvage what little pride his son had left.

But – Burt _did_ notice. And every poorly-concealed wince, every softly drawn in breath that revealed Kurt's pain, made Burt ache, too.

He laid a gentle hand on Kurt's shoulder. His voice was soft and carefully level, only a slight tremor betraying his fury at what Finn had told him.

"Heard school was pretty rough today."

Kurt abruptly curled in tighter around the space where his father sat, pressing his face against Burt's leg. His voice was muffled but still audible, heavy and hoarse with shame.

"Dad," he whimpered. "It was just – it was so _humiliating_…"

Burt didn't say anything. There was nothing he could say that would fix this – and wasn't _that_ a feeling he was becoming miserably used to these days – so he just moved his hand from Kurt's shoulder to protectively cup the back of his head, and silently waited for him to go on.

"They all _know_ now," Kurt whispered, though in the stillness of the room it wasn't difficult to make out the words. "I – I was doing okay. Everyone had pretty much stopped with the whispering and the staring… and I was just starting to think… maybe it'd be okay, but… but _now_…"

"Yeah," Burt acknowledged in a soft, grim voice, his thumb running slowly back and forth through Kurt's hair. "I'd like to track down that Ben Israel kid," he muttered. "Teach him good."

Kurt raised his head a little, sniffling. He glanced up at Burt, his expression pensive, just the slightest twitch of his lips giving away the fact that he wasn't quite serious.

"His home address is on his blog. You know. For the fan mail he never gets."

Burt let out a quiet huff of laughter, shaking his head, unsmiling. "Don't tempt me, kid."

"You can't do anything to him," Kurt sighed, informing Burt of what he already knew too well. "He's a minor, and you're a lot bigger than him, and… and you can't go to jail." Kurt buried his face against Burt's thigh again, one hand clutching at the coarse fabric of the battered jeans Burt was wearing, and Burt's heart ached at the fine tremor he could feel in Kurt's desperate grip. "Your – your heart can't - can't take the stress, and…" Kurt paused, his words hesitant as he concluded in a barely audible whisper, "… and I _need_ you."

Burt swallowed hard, struggling to speak past the lump in his throat, his eyes burning with tears. "I'm right here, Kurt," he whispered at last, his voice hoarse and shaky. "Not going anywhere."

Kurt was quiet for a moment, before lifting his head again, letting out a soft, bitter laugh. "Listen to me," he muttered, shaking his head. "So pathetic and stupid and – and _selfish_. Don't have a heart attack, Dad, not because you shouldn't put yourself through that, but because _I_ need you too much…"

"_Hey_." Burt put his hand back on Kurt's shoulder, pushing back a little to get him to sit up. "Kurt, come on. Look at me. Get up here and look at me, kiddo."

Kurt reluctantly sat up, and it took him a moment to finally meet his father's eyes. Burt hated the sight of the guilt and despair he saw there. He raised a hand to gently cup Kurt's cheek, holding his gaze as he spoke with fervent certainty.

"We need _each other_, Kurt. That's _always_ been true, and that hasn't changed. You need me to keep it together right now, for both of us, not go flying off the handle and knocking the crap out of somebody who's not worth going to jail over – and _I _need _you_ to not give up – to not let 'em beat you, Kurt. You never have before."

Kurt shook his head, looking away, his voice heavy and trembling. "This is _different_, Dad…"

"Don't think I don't _know_ that," Burt replied, a little more sharply than he'd intended, and he immediately softened his voice again, not wanting Kurt to misunderstand and think he was angry with him. "You know how hard it is for me not to go after that little prick who posted that disgusting video? Or to… to go out there and track down the guy that did this to you in the first place, and just…just…"

Burt closed his eyes, swallowing hard and trying to regain control of his emotions, which were once again threatening his fragile sense of control. Kurt didn't know – and _couldn't_ know – how many times in the last week and a half he'd thought about how easy it'd be to go down to the nearest pawn shop and pick up a gun. _Finding_ the bastard would be harder, but when he did…

Burt opened his eyes, and his train of thought came to an abrupt, crashing halt at the worried look on his son's face. Kurt was studying him closely, wide-eyed. Slowly, he shook his head.

"Dad," he whispered. "Dad, you _can't_…"

"I know," Burt hurried to reassure him. "Kurt, I _know_. It's just – I hate that there's nothing I can _do_ about this, you know?"

Kurt was still staring up at him with troubled eyes, and Burt had to look away. It was too much to think that right now, with everything he was going through, the kid was worried about _him_.

"But Dad…" Kurt shook his head slowly. "Dad, you _are_ doing it. Just – just _being_ here, just – just knowing that you… support me… it's enough."

"No," Burt objected, shaking his head. "No, it's not. I just – I just wish I could…"

Burt couldn't finish the sentence past the lump in his throat, tears burning his eyes, but the words echoed his frustration in his mind.

_Protect you… keep you safe… keep anything from hurting you ever again…_

"Kurt…" After a moment, Burt regained enough composure to continue, "… you… you know you don't have to go back there, right? You can go back to Dalton if you want, or – or we'll do something else, but – I'm not gonna make you go back in that place. You can stay home for a few days if you want. We'll make it work, whatever you need…"

"Thank you, Dad," Kurt cut him off softly, looking down at the bed for a moment before meeting his father's eyes with a valiant attempt at a smile. "But… I _do_ have to go back. I – I don't want to, but… I let them chase me away once. I'm – I'm not going to run away again. If I do now, I – I might never _stop_."

Burt frowned, studying Kurt's face closely. A few minutes before, he would have sworn that Kurt would have jumped at the chance to stay away from McKinley – and he was pretty sure he knew his son well enough to know. Something wasn't right here; he was missing something.

"Kurt…"

"Nobody pushes the Hummels around… right?" Kurt persisted, his voice soft and steady, his smile fading to something serious and determined. "You taught me that. And – and now I have to remember it. I have to – to go in there tomorrow morning with – with my head held high, and – let them all see that – there's nothing that can say to break me, or – or to make me run." He was quiet for a moment, staring down at the bed again and swallowing hard. When he looked up again, there was fear mingled with determination in his eyes – and Burt couldn't understand how his boy could look so vulnerable, so in need of protecting, and yet so much like a _man_ at the same time.

"It's okay, Dad," Kurt said softly, with a slow, certain nod. "I _have_ to do this."

Kurt did his best to put on a brave, confident face and reassure his father that he was all right with going back to McKinley – and although it was touch and go for a minute there, he was pretty sure he was convincing – and he _had _to be.

The last thing Burt needed was the stress of Kurt's, at this point, nearly daily histrionics, driving him to a second heart attack – one he might not survive, this time. Kurt knew his father too well to think that he'd actually fooled him completely, but it was the best he could manage at the moment.

At the very least, he had to _try_.

School the next morning was going to be sheer torture, an agony of shame and staring and unending humiliation. Kurt tried to resign himself to it. After all, it wasn't so unusual these days.

He was getting used to it.

And he knew what he had to do. He'd been doing it for years – hiding his insecurities and fears behind an icy stare, a knowing, better-than-you almost-smile, and an absolutely fabulous outfit that made him feel amazing.

And if that fabulous outfit happened to have a couple more layers than usual, well – the cooling fall temperatures could easily explain that away.

Kurt held his head high as he made his way through the halls from one class to the next, his books held in front of him like a protective shield. When Finn or Rachel or Brittany offered to walk with him, he managed to drive them all away with sharp words and a cold demeanor.

He felt bad about it, because he knew they meant well, but he couldn't allow himself to appreciate the gestures at the moment. He needed to be composed and controlled, _hard_ – and the last thing he needed was their well-meaning sympathy, putting cracks in his façade. To Kurt's surprise, Finn figured it out before Rachel, who followed him all the way down the hall to his next class, until he actually had to _ask _her to please go away.

Brittany fell into step with him for about thirty seconds, chattering away, before breaking off abruptly and saying, "Well, why didn't you just _say_ you wanted to be alone?" and then walking off without waiting for a response, completely unoffended.

Kurt spent lunch in the men's room in a locked stall, drawing his legs up in front of him on the toilet seat whenever someone came in – preferring to hide there rather than deal with the sympathy of his friends and the rude curiosity of his classmates. Five minutes before his first afternoon class, Kurt left the stall and stood in front of the mirror, inspecting his appearance.

He practiced his smile for a minute. It was cool and controlled and didn't come anywhere near concealing the borderline panic in his eyes, but it would have to do. He drew in a deep, shaky breath, trying to steady his nerves. He wasn't visibly shaking, but he felt like he was quaking apart inside. He squared his shoulders, steadied himself, and stepped out of the men's room and into the hallway.

And directly into the path of David Karofsky.

Some rational part of Kurt's mind recognized that it could only be an accident. He'd been in the bathroom for too long for David to have followed him there. He knew that, saw David's averted gaze and heard his muttered, "Sorry."

But he didn't register any of that.

A vivid sense memory of rough, chapped lips crushing his, a too-strong hand on the back of his neck, preventing his attempts to pull away – cold eyes smiling into his with the promise of pain and possibly worse if he dared to tell anyone about that awful, stolen kiss – the cold metal end of a pistol shoved up against his temple, the _certainty_ that he was about to die, on his knees and naked on his living room floor, helpless and violated…

"_If you tell anyone… I'll kill you… I'll come back, and I'll_ kill _you…"_

"Whoa, whoa, whoa!"

Karofsky's voice was shaky and scared, and it drew Kurt out of his thoughts enough to realize that he'd jerked back against the wall beside the bathroom door, hard enough to crack his head against it – and his head was now _throbbing_, and oh, _God_, Karofsky was moving _toward _him, concerned and questioning, hands extended in front him in a very deliberately nonthreatening gesture, and even though he knew on some level that the other boy meant no harm, his heart was racing in his throat, and he just wanted him to _go away._

"D-don't," he gasped out, holding up his hands defensively in front of him. "No, please, just… just…"

"Easy, Hummel. I'm not gonna – I mean, I wasn't…" Karofsky babbled helplessly. "Just… just calm down, it's okay…"

"_Hey!_"

Kurt felt an overwhelming sense of relief just to no longer be alone with the boy who'd focused all of his attention on making Kurt's life hell, only a few short weeks earlier. Still, his heart sank at the furious voice he heard from a little ways down the hall – because he knew immediately that this could _not_ be good.

Finn approached the two of them at a furious pace, his long legs closing the distance between them in a matter of moments. Puck was a few yards behind him, not advancing quite as quickly as Finn, whose full attention was focused on the second act of the scene unfolding in the hallway, his eyes blazing with indignant fury.

"_Karofsky!_" he snarled, waiting until he'd reached them, grabbing Karofksy by his letterman jacket and shoving him hard so that he stumbled back against the opposite wall. "_Get the hell away from my brother!_"


	24. Chapter 24

"_Get the hell away from my brother!" _

Kurt didn't have the time or the ability to form a coherent thought, let alone to speak out and stop Finn before he reached them, grabbing Karofsky's shirt and shoving him away from Kurt, sending him staggering backward into the row of lockers, a couple of feet away from where Kurt stood with his back braced against the lockers as well.

Puck stood a few feet behind Finn, staring at Kurt, his lips parted as if he wanted to speak, but was uncertain as to what to say. When Kurt's eyes met his, he looked away abruptly, a nervous swallow visible in his throat. He was shifting awkwardly from one foot to the other, his shoulders lowered in a stance that was almost guilty, and definitely uncomfortable, and Kurt realized in a moment of strange, ill-timed clarity that Puck had barely said two words to him since – since…

He closed his eyes, trying to steady his breathing, trying to bring his thoughts back from the dangerous edge on which they were teetering, and back to the present situation – before his brother did any real damage to David Karofsky.

"What kind of sick creep are you?" Finn snarled in Karofsky's face, shoving his shoulders again in a furious challenge. "What? You heard what happened to him, and you just couldn't _wait_ to get to him and terrorize him some more?"

"_No_!" Karofsky objected desperately, his voice low and trembling. "No, I wasn't…"

"You are seriously _fucked up_, man!" Finn's voice was filled with contempt. He hesitated a moment, glancing toward Kurt, who was staring back at him blankly, trying to collect his thougths enough to speak. Finn's jaw set with anger, and he turned back to Karofsky, hissing coldly, "But not as fucked up as you're _going_ to be…" As he spoke, he advanced on Karofsky again, his fist drawn back in preparation to strike.

"_Wait_!"

When Kurt finally found his voice, it was little more than a hoarse whisper – but it stopped Finn in his tracks. Finn turned to look at the smaller boy, but didn't take his hands off Karofsky's shirt, holding him pressed against the wall – and it occurred to Kurt that Finn probably couldn't have done so if David had really been trying to stop him.

"He – he wasn't…" Kurt swallowed, trying to steady his voice. "Finn – he didn't – _do_ anything. He – ran into me around the – the corner, and – it was an accident. He didn't…" Kurt hesitated, looking away, his face coloring with embarrassment as he concluded weakly, "He _didn't_."

Finn frowned in confusion, glaring uncertainly between Kurt and his alleged tormentor. At last, David took the opportunity to shrug out from under Finn's hands, standing up straight so that Finn had to choose between persisting in his aggression, or backing off.

Reluctantly, Finn backed off.

"Fine," he snapped. "But you _touch_ him, Karofsky, and I'll…"

"I get it, Hudson, okay?" David muttered. "God, I wasn't _going_ to…"

"Kurt." Finn turned his back on Karofsky abruptly, focusing his attention on his brother. "Are you – are you sure you're okay?" he asked, studying Kurt's face closely as he moved to stand in front of him.

The bitter laugh that bubbled up in Kurt's chest surprised no one more than himself.

"No," he admitted, shaking his head. "Not even close. But – but that's not _his_ fault."

A small group of students had gathered, stopping along their way to watch the confrontation. Now, a few of them hesitantly moved on, though some lingered just in case there would be more drama to observe, and later gossip about. Out of the corner of his eye, Kurt saw Santana pushing her way through the remaining onlookers to get to the front of the little scene – and he knew that he had to establish David's innocence, publicly and without question, before Santana managed to get close enough to touch.

He turned toward David, who was standing a bit apart from him and Finn and Puck, as if he wasn't sure what to do next. There was concern behind the awkward defiance in his eyes, as if he _knew_ he was no longer needed here – honestly never had been in the first place – and yet, did not want to simply flee the scene without making sure that Kurt was okay.

Which, why he cared all of a sudden, Kurt wasn't really sure, but he couldn't help but feel a pang of sympathy at the uncertainty in the other boy's eyes – not to mention the fact that he'd nearly gotten his ass kicked by Finn for nothing more than trying to help. Kurt waited until David's gaze found his to speak again, his voice quiet and now only slightly shaking.

"David – that – that wasn't your fault," Kurt stated softly. "I know you were just – just walking, and – and you tried to help, and – and I'm sorry…"

David had been glancing toward Santana, looking as if he was seriously reconsidering his decision not to flee – but now, his gaze snapped back to Kurt's face, his eyes widening and his mouth falling open in shock. He shook his head slowly in disbelief, letting out a startled laugh – but it was bitter and mirthless, and his eyes were suspiciously shining. His words came out choked, stricken.

"You – _you're _sorry? For – for…"

Abruptly, David turned on his heel, swearing under his breath and swiping angrily at his eyes as he finally made his escape. And when he left, the remaining observers seemed to decide that the show was over and began to move on. The pressure and tension in the atmosphere seemed to snap like a rubber band breaking – and apparently, that rubber band was all that was holding Kurt together. He slid down into a crouch against the lockers behind him, covering his face with hands that were suddenly, violently shaking.

Finn crouched beside him, placing a hand on Kurt's shoulder – then swiftly drawing it back when Kurt flinched away.

"Kurt…" His voice was carefully soft and level. "What can I do? I'm sorry, man. I – I really thought he was…"

"It's okay," Kurt whispered, though he was anything but. "I-it's okay. You were – j-just trying to help…"

Finn did not seem to be the least bit relieved. "What can I do, Kurt?" he repeated, his tone anxious and insistent. His concern was obvious, and Kurt knew he meant well, but the pressure was just too much. He wanted to run, just to keep going until he could find a place where he wouldn't have to explain anything to anyone, where he wouldn't have to make anyone else feel better about his suffering, where he could just _breathe_ – but unfortunately, breathing was a pretty vital part of the whole "running away" plan.

"Kurt?" Finn pressed gently. "Just tell me what you need, okay?"

"He needs you to _back off_, moron."

Kurt looked up at the sound of Santana's voice, watching as she put her hand on Finn's shoulder and pushed him back slightly. Finn was caught by surprise; that, and the fact that he was crouched on the balls of his feet and a little off balance nearly sent him tumbling back onto his ass. Finn let out an indignant, startled sound as he caught himself before he could fall.

Santana didn't seem bothered by his predicament. In fact, it only left her free to get closer to Kurt.

"Come on," she said in a voice that was uncharacteristically gentle, as she placed a firm, supportive hand under Kurt's elbow, tugging gently until he was on his feet. "Come on, Kurt. Let's get out of here."

"Now wait a minute!" Finn snapped as he scrambled to his feet. "I can take care of this. He's _my_ brother, Santana. He doesn't need you to…"

"No, actually, he's _not_ your brother, and he _doesn't_ need you all up in his grill, demanding for him to make _you_ feel needed." As she spoke, Santana started to move past Finn, still holding onto Kurt's arm – but Finn abruptly pushed forward, blocking her path.

"I _am_ his brother."

His voice was low and surprisingly dangerous, and Kurt felt a rush of affection and gratitude toward him, despite his misguided efforts, even as his heart sank at the rising confrontation between two people he loved who were almost literally at each other's throats, supposedly on _his_ behalf.

Santana raised her eyebrows, stopping to survey the situation, a slow, knowing sneer spreading across her face. "Oh, that's right," she replied, taking a step back and crossing her arms over her chest. "You _failed _basic biology, right? Because I'm pretty sure his DNA is _miles_ above…"

"I'm his brother," Finn repeated, not rising to her baiting words, his voice low and certain. "In every way that counts. And _I_ can take care of him. We don't need you to take over. I'm going to make sure he's okay – take him home if he wants – so _you_ can just…"

"Finn Hudson!"

Kurt looked up in surprise at the sound of Principal Figgin's sharp voice from the end of the hall. As he spoke, he made his way with swift, purposeful strides toward what was left of the dramatic scene that someone had apparently already informed him of.

"I need to see you in my office, Finn. _Now_."

"I didn't do anything," Finn protested. "I have to take care of my brother right now…"

"That is not what I was told," Figgins countered, his voice warning and angry. "Three students have already come to my office to inform me of your fighting in the hallway with David Karofsky, who is already waiting in my office. And you need to come with me right now."

Finn hesitated, glancing between Figgins and Kurt, who looked up at him and nodded, biting his lower lip.

"Go," he said quietly. "Finn, I'm okay. I told you. Just – don't get in any more trouble over this, okay? Just go."

"_Now,_ Hudson," Figgins snapped. "I am presently inclined to hear your side of the story before handing out disciplinary measures. I may not be so ten seconds from now, if you don't come with me."

Frustrated but defeated, Finn turned away from Santana's satisfied smirk, following Figgins down the hallway without another word. Kurt watched him go for a moment before closing his eyes, covering his face with one hand and drawing in a deep, shaky breath. How had things gone so terribly wrong so very fast? One minute he'd had it all under control – and the next, it had all blown up in his face, apparently taking Finn and Karofsky both down in the explosion with him.

_Because you _didn't_ have it under control,_ a tiny voice whispered in the back of Kurt's mind. _Never did… and never will again. You should just get out of here, just stay away so at least your friends and family don't have to deal with your crazy, too. _

"Come on, Kurt." Santana's voice broke through his hearts, momentarily pulling him up out of the downward swirling vortex into which his thoughts were sinking. "Let's get out of the hall and someplace quieter."

Still dazed and shaken, Kurt went with her as she led him to an empty classroom a couple of halls down. The first empty desk that caught his gaze seemed to draw Kurt like a magnet, and he made his way numbly toward it, almost stumbling into it and clumsily sitting down as Santana closed and locked the door. Once she was sure they would not be bothered, she returned to perch on the edge of the desk in front of Kurt, swinging her legs idly in silence – and just waiting.

Eventually, in the stillness and quiet, Kurt's thoughts began to fall back into place, and breathing became a little easier again. As the entire incident began to come into clear focus, Kurt was surprised at the first coherent thought that rose to his lips.

"You shouldn't be so hard on Finn," he pointed out, softening the words with a sad little smile. "He's – just trying to help."

"But he's _not_ helping," Santana pointed out, clearly irritated. "He's getting all up in your face and pressuring you to talk about things you don't want to talk about, just so that _he_ can feel better about the shitty thing that's happened to _you_, when really none of it's any of his business…"

"But it is," Kurt quietly cut her off, meeting her gaze with a look that somehow silenced her. "He _is_ my brother, Santana. Maybe not by blood, but – but we _are_ brothers now. And he might now know what to do, but – neither do I. Neither does _anyone_." Kurt looked away, feeling his face heat with shame as he closed his eyes and added, barely over a whisper, "At least he's doing _something_. Which is more than I can say."

"Okay," Santana agreed simply, far more simply than Kurt would have expected. "I'll lay off Mand-boobs if you want me to. 'Cause you know, that's what this is about, Kurt. What _you_ need." Santana was quiet for a moment before adding in an unusually neutral tone, "Just what do you think you should be doing that you're not?"

"I don't know." Kurt shrugged, staring down at the floor beside the desk, arms crossed protectively over his chest. "Talking. Something. _Dealing_, somehow, you know? Because in case you didn't notice, I'm – I'm kind of not." His voice shook slightly and he pressed his finger and thumb against his eyes to hold back fresh tears.


	25. Chapter 25

"Mr. Hudson – Mr. Karofsky – this behavior is simply _unacceptable_." Principal Figgins' voice was severe and unyielding. "Violence of any kind will not be tolerated in McKinley's sacred halls of learning."

"Since when?" Finn muttered under his breath, earning a sharp look from the principal – but not particularly caring at the moment. "_That_ rule must be new, 'cause it sure as hell wasn't around a few months ago, when this asshole was knocking my brother around _every day_!"

"But I didn't do _anything_ to him _today_!" Karofsky interrupted, frustration in his tone as he slammed his hand down on the armrest of his chair to punctuate his words. "Damn it, Hudson, I was just trying to help!"

Finn scoffed, opening his mouth to let Karofsky know just what he thought of that assertion.

"Language, boys, _please_," Figgins interrupted, but his tone had softened, and his words were accompanied by a heavy sigh, as he rubbed his eyes with his thumb and forefinger for a moment before looking up. "I realize that this has been a difficult time for your family, Finn. I understand that you are under a lot of stress, and feel the need to defend your stepbrother. However, it is unfair to jump to conclusions and accuse David of things he hasn't done."

"_Recently_," Finn added darkly. "And I'm not even so sure about _that_."

"Kurt _just said_ in the hallway that I didn't _do_ anything!" Karofksy insisted.

"Yeah, and you've _never_ made him feel threatened or scared enough that he'd keep his mouth shut about the shit you've pulled with him, have you?" Finn snapped, his voice scathing with disgust. "Except – oh, wait…"

"Finn," Figgins interrupted in a sad, patient voice, "there are several witnesses who saw the incident in the hallway, before you arrived. They, too, claim that David was not trying to harm or frighten Kurt in any way."

"I wasn't," Karofsky agreed, seeming to be calmed somewhat by Figgins' words. "I just bumped into him around the corner, and he just – freaked out, and…"

"He freaked out," Finn interrupted, his voice low and furious, rising in intensity as he continued, "because _you_ made his life _hell_ for the past year! If you hadn't done what you did to him before, then I wouldn't have thought anything about it, and bumping into you in the hallway wouldn't have scared him…"

"Finn, have you even _looked_ at him lately?" Karofsky sighed in frustration, shaking his head and rolling his eyes. "These days _everything_ scares him."

Finn nearly came out of his seat then, the urge to knock Karofsky's teeth in overwhelming all rational thought. "What are _you_ doing looking at him, you psycho?" he demanded. "You're still fucking _stalking_ him, aren't you?"

"_No_!" Karofsky yelled back. "It's just – you can't miss it, is all. I just – I was just trying to help…"

"You can _help_…" Finn snarled, rising from his seat and heading toward the door. "… by staying the _hell_ away from my brother!"

"_Sit down_, Mr. Hudson, we are not finished," Figgins demanded, rising from his seat and fixing Finn with a warning glare.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Figgins," Finn replied, shaking his head and blinking back furious, frustrated tears. "But – I _am_. Give me detention, suspend me, what – whatever you have to do, but – but I just need to go home."

And without waiting for permission, or offering any further explanation, Finn stepped out into the hallway. He'd made it about halfway toward the exit when Karofsky's voice from down the hall, anguished and furious, stopped him in his tracks.

"I'm _sorry_, okay?"

Finn slowly turned toward him, glaring, outraged. He knew he shouldn't, knew he should just go on home as he'd said, but he found himself striding back towards Karofsky, swiftly closing the distance between them. Karofsky didn't back down, but his voice was more subdued as he continued, quiet and confused.

"I just – I didn't know this was going to happen, you know? I _couldn't_ have known…"

"Like if it _hadn't _happened, everything you did would be _okay_?" Finn snapped, disgusted and furious.

Karofsky shook his head, eyes downcast, visibly struggling for words. "That's… not what I'm saying…"

"He _never_ deserved that, Karofsky. _Never_. He never did _anything_ to you. But it takes him getting…" Finn couldn't bring himself to say aloud the awful word screaming through his thoughts. "… _a-attacked_… and… and terrorized… in his own _home_… for you to decide you feel bad about terrorizing him _first_?"

"I-I'm just sorry, okay?" Karofsky insisted, his tone taking on a pleading note as he finally ventured to meet Finn's eyes. "If there was something I could do to – to take it back, but…"

"But there isn't." Finn's voice was cold, disgusted, as he glared at Karofsky in utter contempt. "All you can do now is stay the _fuck_ away from my brother – because if I see you within ten feet of him again…" Finn stopped, shaking his head, unable to come up with a threat that was both strong enough, and wouldn't get him expelled. "Just… just _stay away_," he concluded finally.

Karofsky offered no defense, no response at all, as Finn turned on his heel and strode back toward the exit.

Kurt spent the greater part of the afternoon at The Lima Bean with Santana, taking advantage of their free wi-fi in order to watch funny videos on YouTube and try to forget, just for a little while, why they'd skipped out on their afternoon classes in the first place. Once they'd taken up the same table for nearly three hours, and the Lima Bean staff started giving them looks of irritation, Santana finally drove Kurt home.

She surprised him as he was reaching for the car door handle, leaning forward and wrapping her arms around him in a tight hug.

"Call me later," she suggested, drawing back and giving him a smile far more warm and genuine than the scary, calculating ones he was used to seeing on her face. She shrugged slightly. "You know, if you get bored. Or whatever."

Kurt returned her smile, unable to conceal his gratitude, not so much for what she had said as for what she _wasn't_ saying. She didn't ask him if he was okay. She didn't ask him if he needed to talk. She didn't try to tell him how to solve a problem that neither of them had any clue how to deal with.

She was just – _there,_ until he was ready to be alone again – and then, just like that, she was gone.

Kurt went to his room and lay down, feeling suddenly exhausted – and for the first time in days, he fell almost immediately into a peaceful, dreamless sleep.

Perhaps if he'd been better rested, he might have been in a better frame of mind when he was roused from sleep by the rather insistent knocking on his bedroom door. He ignored it at first, wrapping his pillow around his head and turning away from the door. He just wanted to be left alone. But when the knocking didn't stop, he finally conceded defeat and went to the door, grumbling under his breath.

The fact that it was his best friend interrupting his sleep didn't make it any better.

In fact, since his best friend was Rachel Berry – it probably made it worse.

The open, sincere concern in her eyes when he opened the door made Kurt feel a profound sense of irritation, and he rolled his eyes, his voice flat and hoarse with sleep.

"What."

He immediately tossed himself back down on his bed, burying his face in his pillow without waiting for her response.

"Kurt – are you okay?" Rachel asked, sitting down on the side of his mattress. "You weren't in school this afternoon."

Kurt reluctantly rolled over onto his side to face her, a sick feeling settling in the pit of his stomach. "Did Finn tell you?" he guessed, not trying very hard to keep the accusing tone out of his voice. He was feeling strangely defensive, although he reminded himself that he had no reason to feel guilty. It was nobody's business but his if he wanted to skip a few classes.

"He didn't say anything." Rachel shook her head. "I don't think – I don't think he was in class this afternoon, either," she admitted, a sad uncertainty in her eyes, and Kurt felt a bit of sympathy for her in spite of himself. "I – I thought he might be here, but…"

"Well, he's not," Kurt sighed. "And I was sleeping, so…"

"Did something happen today?" Rachel asked. "Santana wasn't around, either, and…"

"That's because she was with me," Kurt sighed, aware of the leading nature of her comment, but too tired to bother trying to skirt around it. "We went for coffee and watched stupid videos and talked about nothing in particular. It was way more fun than advanced trig."

"Kurt…" Rachel hesitated, and Kurt braced himself for the lecture. "Are you – are you sure that's a good idea right now?"

"What?" Kurt retorted, raising an eyebrow at her and watching her closely. "Skipping school – or skipping school with Santana?"

Rachel frowned, shaking her head slightly. "What is _that _supposed to mean?"

"You don't like her, Rachel," Kurt pointed out with a shrug, sitting up. "It's no secret. So maybe your problem isn't so much that I'm skipping school as it is that I'm hanging out with Santana." He paused, not giving himself time to reconsider before adding bluntly, "Instead of _you_."

"That is absolutely not true!" Rachel insisted hotly, rising to her feet to punctuate her indignation. A moment later, her voice softened as she ventured to ask with an almost pleading note in her voice, "But – why _are _you? I mean, Kurt – after everything we've been through together, all the things we've shared, I – I feel like I can talk to you about anything. And – and I know I do a lot of talking about me and my stuff, but – all I want right now is to be here for _you, _and…"

"I know," Kurt interrupted with a heavy sigh, staring down at the bed and picking idly at his blanket. "Maybe that's the problem."

"What?" Rachel shook her head, frowning. "I-I don't understand."

"Maybe I don't want to hang out with people who can't stop asking me every ten minutes if I'm okay or not. Maybe I'd rather be with someone who's okay with me just feeling _how I feel_ and not trying to make _them_ feel better all the time."

"And if this person also happens to be encouraging you to self-destruct?" Rachel's voice rose in frustration as she crossed her arms over her chest. "Santana's not the best example to follow, Kurt…"

"I don't need an example," Kurt snapped, standing up and facing her, mirroring her challenging pose. "And I don't need an amateur therapist or advice on how to deal from people who have no idea what I'm going through!" Almost as soon as the words left his lips, Kurt realized his mistake, how he'd very nearly let Santana's secret out with his own, and he swiftly, smoothly covered by adding, "Santana doesn't do that! She doesn't try to tell me how to handle this, but everybody else seems to think that's the thing to do, even though they don't have a freakin' _clue_, and I just wish that everybody'd just _back off_!"

"But you're not thinking clearly right now, Kurt," Rachel insisted. "You're making terrible choices, and…"

"_One afternoon_, Rachel!" Kurt realized that he was almost yelling, but felt no desire to control his reaction. "_One half_ of one day of missed classes is _not _self-destructing! So I needed some room to _breathe, one day_ after the entire world finds out what happened to me! Why is that so terrible? Santana may be a bitch, but at least she can _comprehend _why that might be something I need and cut me a little slack, here! But my _best friend_, on the other hand, apparently can't. Well, _fine_. I'm not asking you to understand. I'm not asking you for _anything_, except to just give me some freaking _space_ and leave me alone!"

"I wouldn't be able to call myself your friend if I didn't tell you what I think," Rachel sniffed, her voice trembling and tearful. "But if you don't want that, then _fine!_ If what you really want is space, then I'll leave – but you might want to be careful, because if you keep treating your friends this way, pretty soon you just might have more 'space' than you can handle!"

She spun on her heel and headed for the door.

"_Not likely_!" Kurt yelled after her, kicking angrily at his bed before sitting down on the edge of it with a frustrated huff.

Almost immediately, he regretted the way he'd talked to her – not that he felt he was wrong, not really. She and Finn and the others _were_ all crowding him, expecting him to give them answers, when he wasn't even sure of the questions himself, and it was the last thing he needed, and – and she was only trying to help, after all, wasn't she? She was, as always, frustratingly certain of her own rightness – but she _was_ his best friend, and he'd brushed her off, practically chasing her out the door as if she meant nothing to him.

With a heavy sigh, Kurt rose again and headed toward the door. Maybe he could still catch her before she left. Before he could open the door, however, it swung open inward, and Rachel was standing there, tears shining in her eyes.

"I'm sorry," she blurted out. "Kurt, I'm so unbelievably dumb sometimes, and this whole situation is so hard, because I just want to _fix it_, and I don't know how to help you, but I just want to _so much,_ and – and I'm doing it again, aren't I? That thing where I make stuff all about me, when it's not, it's about you, and I should be listening to what _you_ need, or – or just shutting up, if _that's_ what you need, and I just can't tell you how _sorry_ I am, Kurt, for the way I've…"

"Rachel?"

She immediately stopped, looking up at him with wide, hopeful eyes. "Yes, Kurt?"

He smiled back at her through his own tears, his voice hoarse and filled with affection that belied his words. "Shut up." Before Rachel could react, Kurt pulled her into a warm hug, burying his face against her shoulder. "I'm sorry, too," he whispered. "I know you're trying. I – I can't expect anybody else to know how to handle this any better than I do. I just – it's hard, you know?"

"I know," Rachel whispered, nodding and hugging him back for a moment before pulling away. "But you've made it clear you need some space right now, so I'm going to go. If that's still what you want. Okay?" She was so hesitant, so cautious, and Kurt couldn't help but appreciate the effort.

"Yes, please," he sighed with an apologetic grimace. "I'm just so _tired_, and… and I haven't been sleeping, and… right now I feel like I could sleep for a week…"

"Okay," Rachel agreed. "I'll get out of your way. And – if you don't want to talk about it, I – I get that. Just…" She was quiet for a moment, swallowing hard and looking down before meeting his eyes again, solemn and pleading. "Don't shut me out _completely_, okay?"

"Oh, Rachel…" Fresh tears welled in Kurt's eyes, and he leaned in to hug her again. "Of course I won't."

"It's just that I love you so much," Rachel whispered tearfully. "I don't know what to do, but – but I just love you and want to be able to do _something_…"

"Maybe that's… all I need you to do right now," Kurt pointed out, drawing back to meet her eyes ruefully. "Just – keep loving me, even when I'm – utterly terrible. Because… I don't know what I'm doing right now, Rachel," he admitted softly, shaking his head. "I don't know how to be or feel or… or _anything_, and… I just need some space, and… and time to figure it out, without… feeling like nobody's going to be left when I finally do."

Rachel's eyes softened with sympathy, and she replied emphatically, "I will _always_ be here, Kurt. You just… take whatever time you need, and if I _can_ do something, let me know, but… even if I can't, and even if it takes you a while to figure it out, whenever you do… I'm still going to be right here."


	26. Chapter 26

By the time the next knock came on his bedroom door, several hours later, Kurt actually felt rested and ready to get up – though he wasn't sure if he wanted to face what was waiting for him on the other side of that door.

"Kurt?"

His dad's voice, quiet and cautious, as though trying not to wake him if he was still sleeping soundly, came through the closed door, and Kurt had to appreciate the fact that the door didn't open until Kurt replied.

"Come in."

A moment later, Burt walked in, a warm but somewhat reluctant smile on his face. "Hey, kiddo," he said quietly as he crossed the room to sit on the edge of Kurt's bed. "How're you feeling?"

Kurt sat up a little, resting on his elbows and considering the question for a moment before responding. "Better, now. I think I just needed some rest."

"That's good." Burt nodded, looking down at his hands splayed on his knees, one tapping in a nervous way that made it clear to Kurt that he had something more to say, something that apparently wasn't going to be easy. "And… how was school today?"

Kurt looked away, swallowing hard. "Fine," he replied.

He hated lying to his dad, almost never did it – but that particular rather simple lie was slipping off his tongue easier and easier these days, and it didn't seem to matter who he was telling it to. _"Fine"_ was just so much easier than trying to put into words the devastating emotions that he didn't want to even think about, much less vocalize.

"Fine. Huh." Burt nodded again, slowly, thoughtfully. Then he turned to look at Kurt, waiting until Kurt finally, reluctantly met his gaze to continue calmly, "That's why you skipped out this afternoon?"

Kurt's peaceful, well-rested feeling began to slip away a little. He glared up at his dad, defensive, and maybe a little defiant. "Which one of my traitor friends told you? It was Finn, right? Or maybe he just told Carole, and she…"

"Principal Figgins called me," Burt sighed. "And Kurt, I'm glad he did. Granted, I wasn't thrilled to get the call, but I need to know about things like this…"

"Could you ground me?" Kurt's smile was falsely bright. "Please? Maybe for a week or two? I don't think I should be allowed to leave my room for a while."

Burt looked down at his knees again, shaking his head slowly. "Kurt, if you're not ready to go back to school yet, that's fine. I already told you – you don't have to go back until you're ready. If you think it'd be easier for you, we can even look into homeschooling if you want."

Kurt _didn't_ want. He didn't want _at all_.

As difficult as attending school at McKinley again had become, the thought of spending every day in this house – in the same place where _it_ had happened, with all the dark, terrifying memories that lived there now – it made Kurt feel like throwing up. There wouldn't be half as many distractions, wouldn't be any way of escaping the constant reminder of what had happened to him.

He was certain that he would lose his mind if that happened.

"No," he said softly. "I – I can't do that…"

"Well, you can't do _this_, either!"

Burt's voice was suddenly sharp, and a little shaky, and Kurt jumped, looking up at his dad, startled. His father almost never yelled at him, and had been particularly cautious and gentle since… the incident, almost to the point of irritating Kurt, and making him wish that his dad would just act normal around him, instead of treating him like he was some delicate glass thing, likely to shatter at the slightest impact.

Now, Kurt found himself abruptly wishing his dad would go back to that sort of careful gentleness.

"Damn it, Kurt, you have no idea what I – what could have…" Burt stopped, raising a trembling hand to cover his eyes for a moment. "I – I didn't know where you were, and… and I thought… you could have…"

Understanding descended on Kurt all at once – along with an overwhelming sense of guilt, as he realized just what had prompted his dad's angry outburst. He swallowed hard, sitting up in the bed and edging nearer to where his father sat, reaching out a tentative hand to rest on Burt's leg.

"Dad, I – I'm sorry," he whispered, with full sincerity. "I… didn't realize… didn't _think_…"

"No, Kurt, you didn't!" Burt snapped, but he didn't pull away from Kurt's hand, and he followed the words with a heavy sigh, lowering his warm, callused hand to rest over Kurt's. "You're having a hard time dealing with the morons at your school, you wanna skip out for a day or whatever – fine. I don't mind. I already told you I don't mind. Just – you gotta _tell_ me is all, okay?"

"Yeah," Kurt whispered, nodding quickly. "Yeah, I'm sorry, Dad…"

"You got to remember, Kurt – this is hard for me, too. It's bad enough when you're at school, surrounded by people. I _know_ you're safe there… relatively speaking… and _still_…" Burt shook his head, breaking off his words with a shaky sigh. "Every time I don't know where you are, Kurt, I'm gonna be… thinking… Kurt, you just gotta tell me, all right?"

"I'm so sorry, Dad," Kurt repeated, guilty tears slipping from his eyes as he shifted nearer, moving in close behind his father and lowering his head onto his shoulder. "I didn't mean to scare you. I just – I wasn't thinking about it, and… I screwed up."

"Yeah," Burt replied with a little huff of laughter. "You sure did. But you know… it's not like I _haven't_ screwed up these past couple weeks."

Kurt frowned, closing his eyes as he wrapped his arms around his dad and hugged him. "You haven't."

"Don't tell me that, kid. I'm not stupid. Neither of us really knows what we're doing. We're – we're working it out together as we go, you know? And it'll be okay. We just have to keep – talking about it, as these things come up. Making sure we're… communicating. Right?"

Kurt nodded against his dad's shoulder, his whispered response barely audible. "Right."

"Good." Burt pulled away a little, a reassuring arm around Kurt's shoulders as he gave him a warm smile. "Now, you might want to get up, wash your face, do something with your hair – whatever you do when you've got company. There's someone in the living room who's waiting to see you. I told him I'd see if you were ready to get up."

Kurt frowned, shaking his head and looking down at the bedspread. "I don't want to see anybody…"

"You might," Burt argued mildly, waiting until Kurt looked up at him curiously to clarify. "It's Blaine."

Finn watched the sun go down from his seat at the top of the bleachers, pulling his jacket a little tighter around himself, as the fading light left behind only the bitter autumn chill. He knew his mom and Burt would be beginning to worry, especially if Figgins had called them about the incident in the hall with Karofsky – but that was just one more reason that he couldn't bring himself to call home right now, or to _go_ home, either.

The other, bigger reason was his brother.

He wasn't the smartest guy he knew, didn't always pick up on things as quickly as some of his friends did, but Finn wasn't stupid. He hadn't missed the frustrated tension in Kurt's voice as he'd told him, not unkindly, to go away and stop trying to help – while simultaneously meeting Santana's offer of help with gratitude and immediate acceptance.

He knew that the last thing Kurt needed right now was for his friends and family to pull away from him, but it was difficult, facing him, while knowing perfectly well that there was _nothing_ he could do to make things any better for him. Kurt's friends could form a protective shield around him, make sure he was safe at school and had a distraction when he wanted it – but they couldn't keep the nightmares away in the middle of the night, couldn't make Kurt's home a safe space again.

Not as long as the monster that had hurt him was still out there, free to return any time he chose.

"Dude… what're you _doing_ here?" Finn looked up at the sound of Puck's voice, staring straight ahead as his friend took a seat next to him and gave his shoulder a good-natured shove. "It's getting dark, man. And it's getting fucking _cold_."

"I'm not ready to go yet," Finn stated simply.

"Your folks gonna be pissed?" Puck guessed, his tone sympathetic. "Dude, Karofsky deserved to get beat down today." With a sharp laugh, Puck added, "He pretty much _always_ deserves to get beat down."

"Maybe." Finn was quiet for a moment. "But… he was right about one thing."

"Yeah?" Puck sounded skeptical. "What's that?"

"He didn't _have_ to do anything today, for Kurt to freak out. Kurt's scared _all the time_ right now." Finn swallowed hard, trying to ease the ache in his throat, as he stared down at his folded, fidgeting hands. "It doesn't matter if the bullies give him crap, or if they leave him alone. It doesn't matter how much we try to help. He tries to cover it up and act like he's okay, but he's freaking terrified. All the time."

Puck was silent for a long moment. "Yeah," he replied at last, his tone heavy and subdued.

"And he's gonna be," Finn continued. "As long as that guy's still out there. The one that… broke into our house. The police aren't doing shit. They don't seem to think they'll be able to find him, because he wore gloves and he wore a mask, and there's no… DNA match, I guess… and Burt and Kurt didn't see the tags on his van, so… it sounds like they've more or less given up…"

"Fucking useless," Puck muttered resentfully, shaking his head and looking away.

"But… I'm thinking maybe there's something _we_ can do."

Puck looked up at Finn, a single brow raised in a wordless question. Finn just gave him a grim smile in return.

"Are you in?"

Puck frowned, shaking his head slightly in confusion. "Are you talking about… _us_ trying to track this guy down?"

Finn didn't say anything, just kept looking at him expectantly.

"Dude, it's pointless. How are we supposed to find him? It's not like we're going to find evidence that the cops somehow missed. And what would we do if we found the guy, anyway?"

"What would we do?" Finn echoed, incredulous, frustration coloring his words. "We'd make sure he wasn't able to ever hurt my brother again, that's what we'd do!"

"That guy's a stone cold killer, man," Puck pointed out. "And you think _we're_ gonna…"

"I thought you were a badass," Finn cut him off, his voice trembling with anger that he knew, even as he spoke, wasn't really fair to aim at Puck. "I thought you were _my friend_."

"I _am _your friend!" Puck snapped. "But dude – you're kind of fucking _losing_ it, here! This is a _really_ bad idea…"

"I thought you of all people would _like_ the idea…"

"Yeah, well, I don't," Puck interrupted sharply, standing up too, and spinning on his heel to stride hurriedly away, muttering as he left, "I don't have to put up with this bullshit!"

Finn watched Puck go for a moment with a resentful glare, wondering about his oddly hostile reaction, before zipping up his jacket and heading down the bleachers to leave. He got into his car and sat there for a few minutes, considering, before he finally started the engine and began to drive across town. He was a little unsure of the exact address he was looking for. After all, he'd only been there once or twice, for a couple of parties thrown for the football team. He recognized the outside of the house, finally, and parked his car, waiting a few minutes to figure out what he was going to say… and whether or not he was really sure he wanted to do this.

Finally, Finn walked up to the porch, ringing the doorbell before he could think himself out of it.

David Karofsky answered the door, eyes widening with shock when he saw Finn standing there – and then narrowing defensively.

"Hudson, I got nothing left to say to you…"

"Did you mean it?" Finn cut him off, studying his face closely. "What you said before?"

Karofsky frowned, shaking his head in confusion.

"About doing _anything _you could to make it up to Kurt?"

Karofsky stared at him for a moment, suspicion warring with hope in his eyes. Finally, he glanced a bit uneasily back into his living room, before stepping out onto the porch and closing the door behind him.

"Yeah," he replied with a single, resolute nod. "I did. What did you have in mind?"


	27. Chapter 27

It took Kurt nearly 45 minutes to make himself presentable enough that he felt comfortable seeing Blaine. Even so, he found himself glaring into his mirror, sighing with frustration at his sleepy, slightly puffy eyes and unusually pale skin tone. It'd been a few days since he'd bothered with his usual skin care routine, and Kurt was pretty sure it showed.

_Behaving like a deranged mental patient is one thing… but_ _you're starting to_ look _like one._

Finally, in spite of his misgivings, Kurt pasted on a smile and left his room, trying to ignore the way his heart was racing, and the self-conscious unease settled in the pit of his stomach. Blaine was standing in the living room, talking to Kurt's dad with a warm, polite smile on his face – and something resembling utter terror in his eyes.

Despite the rush of affectionate annoyance Kurt felt at his father's deliberately intimidating behavior, he realized that he suddenly felt at far less of a disadvantage, when faced with Blaine's desperate, "help me" look from across the room. Kurt managed to suppress both amusement and annoyance as he crossed the room to join his father and his friend.

"Hey," he said softly.

"Hey," Blaine echoed, giving Kurt a warm smile, but still visibly, acutely aware of Burt's very focused attention on him. "Thanks for… for letting me come see you…"

Kurt looked away, not quite sure how to respond to that. "Oh. Well, thanks for… for coming."

At this point, he wasn't sure it was quite the privilege Blaine thought it was.

"Want to… go somewhere where we can talk?" Kurt suggested, feeling the awkward uncertainty creeping back in, now that the moment was at hand for him to finally have this conversation that he wasn't sure how to have, wasn't sure he _wanted _to have at all.

"Yeah." Blaine nodded, following Kurt as he led the way toward his room.

"What?" Burt called after them. "You can't talk here?"

Kurt smiled, but ignored his dad's words, aware that he wasn't really expecting a response so much as trying to make a point. As he and Blaine descended the stairs, he heart Burt add a light-hearted warning.

"Door open."

"I know," Kurt called back, glad for the full flight of stairs that made it possible to leave his door open, and satisfy his father's protective instincts, while still giving him fair warning if anyone were to come near enough to overhear his conversation with Blaine.

Not that he had any idea yet how said conversation was going to go.

He didn't want to tell Blaine anything at all about what had happened to him, but the thing was – the rest of the world already knew, everyone who was even the slightest part of his life – and he _did_ want for him and Blaine to stay friends. A small part of him still wanted more than that, but that idea seemed nothing more than a distant, wistful memory, now.

There was no way Blaine would want to be with him – not once he _knew_.

"So, your dad is… pretty intense," Blaine remarked with a little laugh as he tentatively sat down on the edge of Kurt's bed, his hands tucked a bit awkwardly into his pockets.

"Yeah," Kurt sighed, rolling his eyes. He briefly considered sitting down on the bed beside Blaine, but then thought better of it and turned his desk chair around to face Blaine, sitting there instead. "He's… a little on the protective side lately. More. Than… usual." He found himself suddenly self-conscious, unable to quite bring himself to look Blaine in the eye.

Blaine stared down at his lap, nodding. "_Everybody_ seems to be, really."

Kurt's curiosity got the better of him, and he looked up at that, a single brow raised. "Everybody?"

Blaine gave a little shrug, clarifying, "Your dad, your stepmom, your brother…"

He looked up, smiling a little, but whatever he saw in Kurt's eyes when they met made his smile fade away. Blaine looked down at his lap, his hands withdrawing from his pockets and fidgeting idly for a few moments as an awkward silence descended. The shaky breath Blaine drew in was unnaturally loud in the stillness, before he ventured to speak again in a small, hesitant voice.

"Why do I feel like there's this… really huge piece of the story that everybody knows about… everybody but me, and… no one is talking about it?"

"Well…" Kurt swallowed hard, weighing his words before replying quietly, "… that's probably because… that's pretty much exactly true."

A brief flash of hurt crossed Blaine's face before he looked away again. "Oh."

"But… it's not because I didn't want to tell you," Kurt hurried to clarify, then shook his head frowning. "Or… it's not because I wanted to tell everyone _but_ you. I – I didn't want to tell _anyone_, but… they found out anyway, and… and now everyone knows, and… you've been one of my closest friends for the past few months, and… I don't think it's fair for you to be in the dark when everyone else knows what's going on, but… I have _no idea_ how I'm going to say this, Blaine, because… I've _never _said this, not really, and… and it's really hard. Okay?"

Blaine blinked, confusion apparent in his dark eyes. "O-okay," he replied. He hesitated a moment before confessing softly, "I… I don't think I understand. Not… really, but… Kurt, you really don't have to tell me anything if you don't want to. You're not… _obligated _to…"

"_Please_, Blaine."

Kurt's voice was barely over a whisper, but it stopped Blaine's words in their tracks. Kurt couldn't look up, his face flushing with the heat of shame, as he struggled to find the words he needed to make Blaine understand – words which seemed utterly impossible in this moment. He briefly considered if it might be easier to simply ask someone else to talk to Blaine, just to avoid the awful humiliation of this moment – but he knew that if he did, he'd never be able to face Blaine again, _ever_.

He had the horrible suspicion that once this was done, he might not be able to, anyway – but the only hope for this precarious friendship now was the truth.

"So… you know that… my house was robbed," Kurt began slowly.

"Yeah," Blaine gently prompted him when Kurt didn't go on for a long moment. "I know. It must have been… terrifying."

"Yeah," Kurt whispered, his throat aching, his eyes burning as he struggled to maintain his control. "These two guys… broke in when my dad and I were… about to have dinner. Or… they didn't _break_ in, not really, because I – I _let_ them in, like an idiot. I just opened the door and they just walked right in, and… they… had guns, and… masks over their faces, and… it was… terrifying, and horrible, and… and we thought they were going to kill us, but… but they didn't, but… sometimes I kind of wish they had, because… because what he _did_ do… it changes _everything_, Blaine, and I don't even know how to say it, and I don't know how to go back to before it happened, and I just… I can't… I can't…"

Kurt's words trailed off, his breath so rapid that he couldn't seem to catch up to it, his heart racing and his stomach roiling as the mental images lingering from that night played over in his head. He covered his face with his hands, struggling to catch his breath, to keep the tears from falling, to somehow _keep it together_ so that Blaine wouldn't see him like this, so that he could offer the explanation that his friend deserved, but he was collapsing in on himself, falling apart so completely, so disastrously in this moment that he had no idea why he'd ever thought he could do this, could get through this, could _survive_ this…

"Kurt… Kurt, look at me… _please_, Kurt…"

Blaine's voice was quiet and gentle, muffled as if coming from underwater, and a moment after he heard it, Kurt felt Blaine's hands on his wrists, tentatively tugging his hands down, just a little – ready to stop at a moment's notice if Kurt didn't respond. Kurt did, lowering his shaking hands into his lap, but he kept his eyes closed, unable to bear looking at Blaine in this state. He hadn't really told him anything, hadn't gotten even half of the story out – and yet the humiliation was overwhelming.

_Blaine must think you're such a pathetic child,_ the taunting voice in his mind berated him. _A weak, stupid coward who brought this on yourself, practically rolled out the welcome mat for them, and let them hurt you and hurt Dad and didn't even _try _to fight back, you weak, worthless, useless little…_

"_Kurt_." Blaine's voice was firmer, more clearly audible now, and it momentarily shut out Kurt's tormenting thoughts. "Hey… hey, look at me, okay?"

Kurt finally opened his eyes, blurry with tears, and dragged them down to meet Blaine's gaze, warm and concerned and far too knowing for Kurt's comfort. Blaine was crouched in front of Kurt's chair, and his eyes were brimming with tears, too, Kurt realized, as his own vision began to clear, and Blaine's hands shifted from Kurt's wrists to gently, cautiously take his hands.

"Kurt… if you want to tell me about that night, then… I _absolutely_ want to listen," Blaine said in a quiet, earnest voice. "I'm your friend, and… I want you to feel like you can talk to me, but… I don't want you to feel like you _have_ to talk to me. So… everyone else somehow managed to find out something that's… apparently really private." He shook his head, a sad smile on his lips. "That doesn't mean you owe it to anybody else to tell them, too. Not me. Not anyone. So… I guess what I'm saying is… don't tell me this because you think you have to. I don't have to know, and it's not going to affect our friendship. Okay? I can still… be here for you, and… and try to help you get through this… even if I don't really know what 'this' is… right?"

Kurt stared at Blaine in silent disbelief, his mind slowly catching up to Blaine's train of thought – and the concept that he hadn't really considered.

With the notable exception of Santana, every person in his life had been asking, hinting, _pushing_ for him to open up and talk about what had happened, and he'd just assumed that, now that the secret was out, Blaine would expect to be at least as informed as everyone else. It had never occurred to him that it might simply be okay to just say nothing, and just continue their friendship as it had been before all of this had happened – but apparently, Blaine was okay with that.

And the idea filled Kurt with an immense feeling of relief.

He nodded, finally, freeing one of his hands in order to reach up and wipe away the tears in his eyes.

"Yeah," he whispered, a little shakily. "Yeah, that… that sounds good. Th-thank you."

"Nothing to thank me for," Blaine insisted, shaking his head, and rising up on his knees to wrap his arms around Kurt in an impulsive hug. "You have a right to your privacy, and I wouldn't be your friend if I asked you to talk about something you're not ready to talk about."

Kurt closed his eyes again, soaking in the warm strength of Blaine's arms around him, his hands still tingling slightly where Blaine had touched them, and he felt a deep sense of sadness come over him as he thought about how elated he would have been if this had happened just a few short weeks earlier. He would have relished the hug, the brief moments when Blaine held his hands, and optimistically – _naively_ – looked forward to the time when there might be more between them.

Now, Kurt felt a little sick inside, a little guilty, at the thought that Blaine was touching him, getting close to him, and didn't know the truth about him. The thought of Blaine kissing him, touching him more intimately, filled Kurt with a sense of horrified dread – the idea of Blaine's mouth, Blaine's hands, contaminated by the places Kurt's rapist had touched.

His medical tests had all come back negative; he wasn't sick, hadn't caught anything from the man who'd raped him. He'd showered again and again, several times daily since that night, scrubbing his skin until it was red and raw and blistered from the highest level of heat he could stand – and yet, he still didn't feel clean.

But it didn't matter, not as far as Blaine was concerned, he told himself – because Blaine was satisfied to simply be his friend. Yes, he'd expressed an interest in more when he'd come by a few days ago, but Kurt knew that he couldn't actually let that _happen_. Blaine had no idea what he'd be getting into by getting into a relationship with Kurt – but as long as Blaine was just his friend, then he was safe. There was no reason to worry, no reason why Blaine had to know about that night – ever.


	28. Chapter 28

As it turned out, police reports were a matter of public record – something easily obtained by a trip to the Lima police station, as long as one had $10 in hand. Finn just smiled innocently in response to the curious look the woman behind the counter gave him, and waited for her to print off the information that he needed. There was no law stating he had to be an adult to obtain a police report, even if it _was_ a little bit unusual.

Once the report was in his hand and he was safely in his car, Finn sent off a quick text to Karofsky.

They met at the public library in a quiet corner, away from the small, private study rooms where Lima's high school crowd liked to congregate – not that those McKinley students who were frequenters of the library were really in either Finn's or Karofsky's social circles. Finn just didn't want to take any chances, to end up having to deal with questions from his friends – or God forbid, his _brother_ – about why he was suddenly spending time with David Karofsky.

And, not that he cared that much, but he was pretty sure Karofsky didn't want to be seen with _him_, either.

Finn made a copy of the police report he'd purchased at the library's copy machine, and handed it over to Karofsky. Finn sat in silence for a long time, poring over the report and trying to find anything that he didn't already know, but most of it was stuff he'd already heard. It was quite a bit more – _detailed_, however. Descriptions of Kurt's injuries, what little Burt and Kurt had had to say to the police in the days immediately following the attack – Finn wasn't really sure he _wanted _to know this much.

And as he glanced across the table at Karofsky, who was frowning thoughtfully down at his own copy, Finn was suddenly, overwhelmingly sure that he _didn't_ want _Karofsky_ to know it. The thought of Kurt walking in and seeing what they were doing made Finn abruptly, horribly sick.

"Damn it," Finn muttered, dropping the papers onto the table and running a hand through his hair before dropping his head back and closing his eyes in frustration.

"What?"

When Finn looked up, Karofsky was frowning at him. Finn gestured vaguely at the papers on the desk, struggling to find the words, before finally just blurting out, "I'm… _pissed off_, that's what!"

Karofsky looked down at his own copy of the report again. "Well, yeah." He let out a heavy, shaky sigh. "This shit is fucked up…"

"No," Finn clarified, raising his head and glaring across the table. "I'm pissed off at _you_."

Karofsky looked up at him again sharply. "_Excuse_ me?"

"It just – it feels _wrong_, you – sitting here and looking at all of this stuff, reading about what happened to Kurt, when you – after everything you _did _to him…"

"Yeah, well, I wouldn't be reading it if you hadn't asked me to help you with this, Hudson," Karofsky pointed out, looking away. There was resentment in his voice, but he suddenly couldn't seem to meet Finn's eyes, so Finn knew that there was at least some validity to how he felt about this – whether it made sense or not. "I'm not doing this to – to invade Kurt's privacy. I'm doing this because… because I want to _help_."

"Yeah, but it _is_ invading his privacy," Finn sighed, leaning forward and resting his head in his hands for a moment. "And… it's my fault, not yours. I should never have asked you to do this with me."

"I'm… I'm skipping the… the personal stuff." Karofsky's voice was quiet and subdued. "I don't see how that'll help us find this guy, so… I'm just sort of skimming over it and looking for stuff that might help." Both boys were silent for a long moment, lost in their separate, troubled thoughts. Finally, Karofsky broke the silence, his words quiet and almost pleading. "I wouldn't be doing any of this if I wasn't sorry."

Finn wrestled with the anger he still felt every time Karofsky uttered those words, the resentment and mistrust that warred against a certain sympathy – because there'd been a time when he'd been a bully, too, though he'd never threatened to kill anyone, and he'd never made someone as scared as Kurt had been of Karofsky…

_Had _he?

All at once Finn's stomach hurt, and he let out a heavy sigh, shaking his head. "I know," he relented. "I know. It's just… you had him so scared. And… you thought it was _fun_. To scare someone to death that can't even fight back…"

"First of all," Karofsky held up a hand to halt Finn's words, a terse edge to his voice as he sat up a little in his chair, "you don't know _what_ I thought about it. You weren't in my head and you don't have the first clue why I did it. And secondly…" He relaxed a little, a faint, sad smile crossing his lips as he sat back again, a far off look in his eyes, "I think you're underestimating Hummel." Karofsky let out a soft laugh, shaking his head. "He's a fighter, all right." His smile faded into something troubled and solemn as he met Finn's confused, questioning look. "It's not that he can't fight that makes him a target, Hudson. You don't get it. It's… it's that he fights _so hard_. He's… little, and… and weird, and… totally vulnerable, and yet… he still walks around McKinley like he can take the biggest guy in any room, or… maybe just like he doesn't care _what_ they do to him? And… it's… _confusing_. And… maybe scary. You know, for some people."

Finn studied Karofsky closely, considering his words, and wondering at what sort of secret motivations Karofsky might have been talking about that would have pushed him to torment Kurt the way he had the previous year. It had never crossed his mind that anything about Kurt could actually _scare_ Karofsky – or anyone else for that matter.

Okay, yeah, when you messed with his hair products or his clothes or tried to sneak junk food into the house, he could be… actually pretty terrifying, like some small, fast, screeching thing flying at your face in the dark might be terrifying. But just… walking down the halls of McKinley? Just _being _who he _was_? How could anyone find that scary? How could just that alone freak someone out so bad that they'd want to hurt him _so_ _much_?

Finn couldn't make sense of it, and he was still trying to when the whole situation went to hell.

"What the _fuck_?"

Finn first registered Puck's voice, and second registered the fact that it was far too loud for the library. He stood up, feeling guilty and caught, even though he wasn't doing anything wrong, even though if there was one person in the world who'd understand what he was planning, it should be Puck. He swallowed hard, remembering their conversation a few nights earlier, and how spectacularly _not_ supportive Puck had been of his idea.

Puck picked up the file Finn had been reading from the table, jerking it away when Finn tried to take it from his hand. After a moment, Puck's eyes widened with horror, and he dropped the papers back onto the table, staring at Finn, aghast.

"_Dude_," he demanded, "What _is_ this? What are you doing?" He cast a disgusted look in Karofsky's direction, adding contemptuously, "And… with _him_?"

"I already told you, Puck." Finn tried to keep his tone calm, glancing uneasily around to see that several library patrons had turned to look at the scene that Puck was starting. "I'm going to find the guy who hurt my brother. You said you didn't want to help, so I… I had to…"

"Had to what? Pick the one person in the _entire world_ that Kurt would _last_ want to know about _any_ of this?"

"Everybody _already_ knows!" Finn snapped, his defensive feelings getting the better of him. "It's not like it's a secret. He can't sleep. He can't be at school without freaking out. He's scared all the time and can barely even function, and… and if the cops won't do anything, then I'm going to do whatever I have to do to make sure my little brother is _safe_!"

"This won't make him _safe_!" Puck yelled back. "Do you have _any idea_ what kind of a fucking _psycho _you're dealing with here? Not the kind you can handle, that's for _damn_ sure!"

"I think I've got a pretty good idea," Finn retorted, his voice lowered, but trembling with anger. "I'm the one who's… who's _watching,_ every day, what Kurt's going through because of what he did, so I'm pretty sure I get it…"

"No, you really don't," Puck cut him off sharply, turning on his heel and storming out, just as a frowning library employee started toward their table.

"I'm sorry," Finn told her with what he hoped was a disarming, apologetic smile. "I'm so sorry. He's leaving, I promise." He glanced uneasily between the table and Puck's swiftly retreating form for a moment before quietly addressing Karofsky. "I'll be right back. Don't go anywhere."

He hurried to catch up with Puck, then held back a little, letting him get outside the main entrance before he reached out to catch his arm and stop him. Puck jerked away from him, glaring furiously, and Finn froze, troubled by the suspicious gleam in his eyes, almost as if he was close to tears – but Puck never cried, never allowed anyone to see behind his badass exterior, and… and it wasn't even as if he and Kurt were that close, so… what…?

"Dude, what is your _deal_?" Finn sighed. "I don't get you at all lately. I mean, so you think it's stupid and you don't wanna help. Why are you so furious at _me_ for doing this?"

"But you're letting _Karofsky_ help you, after everything he did to Kurt! Does Kurt even know what you're doing, Finn? Does he know that you're showing the police reports of what that bastard did to him to _David Karofsky_?" Puck exploded, gesturing wildly, turning away for a moment before turning back, waiting for Finn's explanation.

Finn's mouth felt dry, his face flushed with a sudden rush of guilty uncertainty. "No. I – I don't want to scare him any more than he already is…"

"And why would it scare him, exactly?" Puck demanded, a smile of mirthless triumph on his lips. "Maybe because he'd know that _if_ you manage to track this guy down, all you're gonna accomplish is to get yourself killed?"

"It's not like I'm going to take him on myself," Finn pointed out. "I'm just hoping I can _find_ him, if he's still around. Then I'll… I'll call the cops so they can take him in. I'm not an _idiot_, Puck."

"It's not like it'd do any good, anyway," Puck sighed, sinking down onto the wooden bench on the sidewalk outside the library. "The damage is done, right? Can't be undone, whether you find the guy or not, so… so why not just leave it alone?"

Finn stared at him, indignant and aghast. "How can you _say_ that? The guy that did this to Kurt – the guy that's basically _ruined his life_ – needs to pay. I don't care if it _fixes_ things or not. He deserves to spend the rest of his life in prison for what he did. And Kurt deserves to feel safe again – to know that the person responsible for what happened to him can't ever hurt him again."

Puck didn't respond, just looked away, staring into space for a long moment, before abruptly rising to his feet and walking away.

"Puck, wait…"

"Just _leave it_, Hudson," Puck snapped, throwing his hands up in frustration as he stalked away.

Finn just watched him go in helpless confusion for a few moments, before doing his best to put it out of his mind and turning to go back into the library. He didn't have time to think about Puck and his weird issues right now.

He had a job to do.

On the way home, Puck kicked a couple of trash cans, a mailbox, and in a very ill-advised and painful move, a curb. He swore under his breath, hurrying his pace in an attempt to walk out the pain – but there were far worse troubles on his mind than his throbbing foot. He stormed into his house, slamming the door and ignoring his mother's concerned calling as he disappeared up the stairs into the sanctuary of his room – which he promptly proceeded to thoroughly trash, tossing books and papers and clothes off his bed and onto the floor, clearing his desk in a single sweep of his arm before sitting down on the floor beside his bed, leaning his back against it and closing his eyes. He was suddenly out of breath, overwhelmed, closer to tears than he'd been in longer than he could remember.

Finn was right, in a way, he knew – not about tracking down Kurt's attacker, because Puck knew all too well how dangerous a move that might be.

But… about the guy needing to pay.

Whether or not it did Kurt any good mentally or emotionally to have the guy behind bars, it was what needed to happen. It was what _deserved_ to happen to anyone who could inflict such brutality on someone as sweet, as innocent and idealistic and bright and unshakably, sometimes scarily strong as Kurt Hummel.

_And what about the guy who made it possible? _

Puck pressed his palms against his eyes, a whispered litany of curses escaping his lips as he struggled in vain to keep back the tears.

"Fuck, fuck, _fuck_…"

_What would they do… what would they think… if they knew that _you're _the one to blame? What would they do if they knew that you're the reason it happened… the reason Kurt was raped and violated and _broken_…_

_It's all your fault… and there's nothing you can ever do to make it right. _


	29. Chapter 29

"Here's your non-fat white chocolate mocha," Blaine announced, setting Kurt's coffee down on the table in front of him. "Even though you're model-skinny already and could _use_ a little fat in your system every now and then. It's healthy, you know."

"I had butter on my dinner roll last night," Kurt offered. "That takes me to my weekly limit."

His smile was bright and warm, and it made Blaine smile to see it – but there was still something… distant, or off, or… _missing_, in Kurt's sharp blue eyes.

They'd agreed to meet for coffee, and Blaine had been relieved just to be able to spend time with Kurt at all. He knew there was a lot that Kurt wasn't telling him about what he'd been through the night of the robbery – and that was okay. Blaine remembered what it felt like – being beaten, and threatened, and really, genuinely certain beyond all doubt that your very life was in the hands of someone malicious and scary and violent, and you were going to _die_ before it was over – and he also remembered how hard it'd been to relate to his friends, after.

He remembered laughing and smiling with his fellow Dalton students in the weeks following the attack. It hadn't taken long before he made friends, became popular, and was the center of attention in every crowded room – but the only thought in his mind, the entire time, was the absolute certainty that he had _nothing whatsoever_ in common with these people. Their biggest fears were tests they weren't prepared for, being grounded for coming in past curfew – not whether or not they'd make it to their destination _alive_, when they headed home for the night.

_Thing is… I_ do _get it. I know what he's going through, and… if he'd just_ talk _to me, maybe I could help, but…_

_But it has to be his choice. I hated it when my friends tried to get me to open up and talk to them about it. They wanted to help, but all they did was remind me of how little they understood what I was going through – how much I'd changed – how much I'd lost._

_The more I push Kurt, the more he's going to pull away from me._

_I remember_ that, _too. _

"So wanna go shop a little?" Blaine suggested when their coffees were about half gone. "I don't have a lot of extra spending money, but there's this scarf I saw in the window at Express…"

"Sure," Kurt agreed, standing and taking his tray toward the place where it was to be returned.

Blaine eyed the muffin Kurt had bought only when Blaine had begged him to get _something_, so that he wouldn't have to feel like a pig eating the giant cookie he'd ordered all by himself – the muffin that had about a bite and a half picked out of it when Kurt tossed it into the garbage.

That was another thing he remembered – the fear and confusion and irrational self-loathing that made you just feel sick to your stomach all the time, with no desire to eat at all, and a questionable ability to keep anything you _did_ eat down. He'd spent the month following the attack in an agonizing cycle of trying to eat to appease his parents and then throwing it up, then trying to avoid eating for as long as possible in order to prevent it from happening again, until he was so hungry that he _had_ to try… and of course, threw it up again. His parents had been on the verge of sending him to a counselor for an eating disorder.

So, it was another thing he'd learned that he hoped could help – distraction could ease the constant, sick fluttering in Kurt's stomach, could maybe help give him a little bit of peace, just for a little while.

So Blaine rambled on about all the boys Kurt knew from Dalton, telling every funny story he could remember from the past few weeks, relieved when Kurt would smile, and taking a deep sense of satisfaction and triumph from every rare, quiet laugh he managed to draw from Kurt's lips. A pang of regret went through Blaine, as he was reminded in a sort of bittersweet way of a time not so very long ago when he wouldn't have had to try so hard, because Kurt would have been hanging on his every word.

Blaine wasn't blind, and he considered himself to be reasonably perceptive; he'd known long before Kurt told him that Kurt had feelings for him. He just hadn't been sure how _he_ felt, at the time, and didn't want to wreck their friendship if it all fell apart in the end.

He supposed it was only fair, then, that Kurt was now the one leaving _him _hanging, Blaine's feelings just _out there _between them in the open, making him vulnerable and uncertain while he waited for Kurt to simply acknowledge them in some way – not that he expected that to happen anytime soon. After all, Kurt had a lot more troubling, serious matters on his mind these days. Still, Blaine wished that Kurt would give him some indication of whether or not he _still_ had feelings for Blaine at all, or if Blaine had simply waited too long.

Blaine tried to suppress his anxious impatience, reminding himself that his confession of feelings for Kurt was probably simply too much to process at the moment, given what Kurt was already dealing with – and that was more than fair. He simply had no choice but to wait, and just be the best friend that he could be to Kurt in the meantime – and at the moment, that meant jokes and compliments and a constant, steady stream of every possible distraction he could think of to keep Kurt from dwelling on the dark, troubled thoughts that every now and then would shutter his eyes, would make Blaine feel that Kurt had drifted away to some dark, private place where Blaine was _not allowed_.

"That's hilarious." Kurt smiled, but he looked tired, and Blaine began to think it might be time to take him home. "So, where did Wes finally find the gavel?"

"He didn't _find _it so much as it just… _showed_ _up_," Blaine explained. "On his desk in the middle of chem class, wrapped up in a bright red…"

Blaine never got to finish his story, or even his sentence – because in the next instant, another shopper bumped into Kurt's shoulder. The bigger guy wasn't watching where he was going, and didn't stop, and hit Kurt with enough force to knock him back a step or two, stumbling. It was rude, and inconsiderate, and Blaine glared at the guy's back, lips parted to protest.

But before he could speak, movement caught Blaine's attention out of the corner of his eye… and Blaine's angry words died in his throat.

Kurt had gone pale and was visibly trembling, his eyes wide and panicked as he backed up out of the walkway until his back was pressed against the wall. His arms wrapped around his middle, one shaky hand rising to his throat as he drew in shallow, rapid breaths, staring up at Blaine, but not seeming to really _see_ him.

"Kurt?" Blaine hurried to his side, instinctively reaching out to touch his arm, but Kurt flinched away from the contact, and Blaine withdrew his hands swiftly, holding them up in front of him. "Kurt, what's wrong? Are you okay?"

"I c-can't…" Kurt gasped out, eyes tightly closed, clutching at his throat, "… I can't breathe… I can't…"

Blaine's heart sank, and he closed his eyes, pushing back his own memories and trying to focus instead on what Kurt was experiencing now. He lowered his voice, maneuvering his body so as to place himself between Kurt and the multitude of shoppers passing by them, some of whom were slowing down or even stopping to gawk at them.

"Kurt," he said softly, "Kurt, you _can_ breathe, okay? You… I think you're having a panic attack, but… you're all right. You're not hurt, and you can breathe, or you couldn't _tell_ me that you _can't_ breathe, okay? You're all right. Look at me, Kurt, okay? Look at me…"

Finally, Kurt opened his eyes and obeyed, focusing his gaze on Blaine's face, and Blaine felt a rush of relief that he was at least getting through to him a little.

"That's it. Good, Kurt. Now, I want you to focus on your breathing for a minute, okay? Just… try to breathe with me, okay? When I do. Can you do that for me?"

Kurt nodded hurriedly, abruptly reaching out to grasp Blaine's hand and pulling him in closer. Encouraged, Blaine reached out and took Kurt's other hand as well.

"Just… focus on drawing the air in and pushing it out, okay? Slowly… with me, okay?" Blaine instructed, keeping his voice quiet and calm. "In… and out. In… and out."

Gradually, over the next couple of minutes, Kurt's ragged, uneven gasps fell into pace with Blaine's steady, measured breaths, until finally, Kurt closed his eyes, lowering his head, and let out a shaky, shuddering sob. Blaine cautiously reached out to put an arm around Kurt's shoulders, pulling him close. Blaine was the shorter of the two, but Kurt felt so fragile and small in his arms, like a bird that might break if he held him too tightly.

Blaine was pretty sure Kurt wouldn't appreciate that comparison.

"It's okay," he whispered, withdrawing a little to meet Kurt's tearful eyes. "It's okay… you're all right."

"H-how…how did you know to do that?" Kurt asked, shaky and a little breathless. "I mean… I was there when they told my dad at the hospital how to… that I might… have… but…"

"I… I used to get panic attacks all the time," Blaine confessed softly, looking away for a moment and swallowing hard, carefully composing himself before meeting Kurt's eyes again over a reassuring smile. "I learned the drill pretty well."

Kurt frowned. "Why? I mean… what h-happened…?"

Blaine glanced around, eyeing the small group of onlookers that were lingering in the hallway, still watching them. "Let's get out of here," he suggested with a nervous little laugh. "Come on, I'll take you home… and if you want, I'll tell you all about it."

They were quiet during the walk to the car, but it didn't feel awkward or uncomfortable. Kurt seemed lost in his own thoughts, understandably, and Blaine was going over his own memories in his mind, trying to decide how much, and well… just _how_ to tell Kurt about his own experience. He was apprehensive, wondering if the story might serve to trigger Kurt's own memories even further, and just be more upsetting to him – but on the other hand, Blaine considered, hearing what had happened to Blaine might help Kurt feel more comfortable opening up and talking to him.

If nothing else, it would prove to Kurt that he wasn't _alone_.

Halfway back to Kurt's house, Kurt finally broke the silence, his voice quiet and subdued, his gaze focused out the passenger side window.

"I'm sorry, Blaine," he said softly. "I – I ruined our day."

"No," Blaine objected. "No, Kurt, you didn't." He reached out without thinking to place his hand over Kurt's on the seat between them, feeling his face flush a little when Kurt turned to look at him sharply, but did not pull his hand away. "I mean… I've been there, okay? I know… how out of control and… and scary panic attacks can be. I'm just… I'm _glad_ I was there with you. To help." As soon as he said it, Blaine cringed, shaking his head with an apologetic little grimace. "And that came out sounding so… arrogant and like, all about me. 'I'm so glad I was there to be the big hero and…' And… and _that_ sounds even _worse_, and… I'm sorry. I…"

"No," Kurt cut Blaine off firmly, and Blaine sighed, giving up. "Blaine… I'm sorry it happened, but… you… kind of _were_ the hero. If it had to happen, I – I'm glad you were there, too."

Blaine glanced at Kurt out of the corner of his eye, startled by his words – and then smiled a little, a warm flush creeping into his face as he tried to focus on his driving, and not the pleasantly confused tumult of emotions evoked by Kurt's words.

When they reached Kurt's driveway, Blaine parked the car, then suddenly remembered that he was still holding Kurt's hand. Awkwardly, he withdrew his own hand, giving Kurt an apologetic look.

"I-I'm sorry if that was… if I crossed the line. I know you didn't want – I mean… I just want to be there for you, and… I wasn't trying…"

"Do you want to come inside?"

Blaine blinked, caught off guard by Kurt's quiet interruption, and the hopeful uncertainty in his wide blue eyes as they searched Blaine's face for his response. Speechless for a moment, he tried to catch up with the turn the conversation was taking – and just exactly what that turn might mean, _beyond_ the conversation.

"I mean… you don't have to, if you just want to… to go home, but… there's no one home right now, and… after what just happened…" Kurt looked away for a moment, his eyes betraying a shy vulnerability when he met Blaine's gaze again and confessed in a hushed voice, "I… don't really want to be alone right now."

"O-okay," Blaine agreed, unfastening his seat belt. "Yeah. I'd love to."

Kurt got out of the car on his side, and then waited for Blaine to come around the car, surprising Blaine completely when he reached out and took Blaine's hand again and led him up the walk. Blaine wasn't sure exactly what was happening, or why, but he wasn't inclined to argue or fight it at the moment. His heart soared with a new hope as he followed Kurt to his front door, wondering just exactly what awaited him on the other side.


	30. Chapter 30

As Kurt led Blaine by the hand into his empty living room, he tried to ignore the quietly insistent voice in the back of his mind telling him that this wasn't right. It wasn't fair to Blaine, not when Kurt knew both how Blaine felt about him, and how very much he should _not_ allow things to go anywhere between them right then.

_It's not like you're _doing _anything,_ he told himself as they settled in on the new-used sofa, in an entirely different part of the room from where the old one had been, and Kurt tried very hard not to picture the old one in his mind, not to remember what had happened there the way he did _every single time_ he walked into this room. _So you held his hand on the way inside. He held your hand in the car and_ that _didn't mean anything._

_Except that to Blaine… maybe it did. Because he _wants _to hold your hand, and have it mean something. Because he likes you. _

_Because he has no idea that there's any reason he shouldn't. _

And that was it, really – the reason Kurt couldn't let Blaine leave. Most of the time these days, being around other people was at best exhausting, and at worst – well, at the end of most school days, Kurt just wanted to hide away in a dark corner of his room and try to remember what it felt like to _not _live with the daily humiliation of knowing that _every single person_ in his life knew exactly what had happened to him.

Every single person… except for Blaine.

Blaine still looked at Kurt like he had before, if with a bit more focus, a bit more hopeful attention in his dark eyes. Blaine looked at Kurt as if he hadn't been touched, by anyone – as if he was pure and bright and beautiful and… not…

_Broken_.

_You're ruined for him, for anyone; he just doesn't know it yet. _

And as selfish as it was, as much as he knew he should keep his distance, keep Blaine's bright, optimistic innocence from being sullied by the oppressive gray darkness that surrounded Kurt's life these days – Kurt simply _couldn't_ send him away.

So instead, he turned on the television and found an old episode of _Project Runway_ that somehow, miraculously, neither of them had seen before. They sat in relative silence, commenting occasionally, even sharing a laugh every now and then, both grateful for the distraction from the stress and anxiety of the afternoon.

About halfway through the episode, Kurt felt Blaine's arm shift downward from the back of the sofa to rest lightly around his shoulders, and his stomach lurched slightly – although not in an entirely unpleasant way. He swallowed hard, his mouth dry, heart racing. He knew that Blaine could feel the tension in his body, because Blaine's arm went slightly rigid as well – and a sudden rush of panic came over Kurt at the thought that Blaine might rethink his actions and remove his arm.

So Kurt just shifted a little closer to the other boy, settling a little deeper into the sofa and drawing his long legs up beside him as he rested his head casually on Blaine's shoulder. Almost immediately, he felt Blaine relax beside him, his arm settling comfortably around Kurt's shoulders again as he nodded toward the television and commented on the latest ridiculous display of what some amateur thought qualified as fashion.

It was warm and close and intimate in a way that Kurt had wanted with Blaine for as long as he could remember… and it was easy to forget all the reasons that he shouldn't allow himself to have it. When the show ended, Kurt turned down the television, sitting up a little, but staying close to Blaine's side as he looked up to meet his eyes. Blaine smiled back at him, a little shyly, and Kurt felt a sharp stab of guilt at the hopeful desire he saw there.

"So…" Kurt cleared his throat as he sat up a little more, not wanting to allow the silence to become awkward. "What happened at the mall… you said… it used to happen to you, too?"

Blaine looked away, his smile fading a little, though he didn't seem all that bothered by the question. He nodded slowly, his thumb running gently, idly back and forth on Kurt's shoulder as he spoke.

"Yeah. I, uh… my sophomore year, I… I took this friend to a Sadie Hawkins dance at my school."

Kurt raised an eyebrow. "Not Dalton, I take it?"

"No." Blaine laughed a little as he shook his head. "This is… why I _go_ to Dalton, actually. I – I had just come out to my parents a couple months before, and… they weren't thrilled, but… they went through the whole ritual. When Tyler came to pick me up, they invited him in and… took the standard prom pictures and all that. It was… cheesy and silly and ridiculously awkward, but… it was really romantic, too, and… I was sure the night was going to be amazing."

"He wasn't just a friend… was he?" Kurt asked softly, though he already knew the answer.

He could see it in the softness around Blaine's mouth as he talked about Tyler, the sad, wistful look in his expressive dark eyes.

"No," Blaine admitted. "I'd had a crush on him for a while, and… I was trying to work up the nerve to ask him out, and then… _he_ asked _me_, so… that's how I knew he liked me back. It was all just so perfect, and… it felt too good to be true, you know?" Blaine's smile vanished as he stared down at his own hand, fidgeting nervously with a loose thread on his jeans. "It… it _was_."

In an instinctive display of reassurance, Kurt reached out his own hand to rest over Blaine's, stilling it, and Blaine looked up at him, swallowing hard, eyes wide and wet.

"Everybody was… staring, and… whispering, and… it felt a little weird, but we were just glad to be there, and together, and… nobody actually _did_ anything… not until… the dance was over. We were waiting outside for Tyler's mom to pick us up, and… these three guys… they were on the hockey team, and… one of them had his stick, and…"

Blaine's voice trailed off, and his arm left Kurt's shoulder, his fingers pressing against his tightly closed eyes as he swallowed, visibly struggling for control. Kurt gently squeezed his hand, putting his arm around Blaine in a mirror of Blaine's gesture before, and drawing the smaller boy in close to him.

"Blaine," he said softly, "you don't have to talk about this. Not if you don't want to. I – I'm sorry I asked…"

"No," Blaine insisted, shaking his head, sniffing loudly. "No, I – I _want_ to tell you, Kurt. I – want you to know this… about me, it's just… it's hard."

"I know," Kurt said gently, reassuringly. "I know."

He hurt for Blaine, but in a twisted way that made him feel a little sick and guilty in the pit of his stomach, this was actually a relief.

It felt good, for once, not to be the one in need of comfort – not to be the weakest one in the room.

"They… broke my arm, and… and two ribs, and… there was some… internal damage. I spent a few weeks in the hospital, and then a few more at home. Tyler – he was there for six months. He was… in a coma. They didn't think he'd… they weren't sure he'd wake up at all for a while. And when I was well enough to go back to school, I – well, I _wasn't_ well enough. I'd see the school colors in the hall and just… flip out." Blaine shrugged slightly, shaking his head sadly. "Didn't matter who was wearing them."

"So your parents sent you to Dalton," Kurt concluded. "With their zero tolerance no-bullying policy."

"Yeah," Blaine confirmed. "And… it got better. The guys at Dalton, they're – they're just different. I guess it's because… some of them are there for the same reasons. Because of the no-bullying policy. I don't know. It's just… better there." Blaine was quiet for a long moment, staring down at his lap again, and their comfortably joined hands. "I still… sometimes remember, though."

"I'm sorry," Kurt repeated softly. "I didn't mean to… to make you remember, before. At the mall."

"It's not your fault," Blaine said quietly, but his voice was thick and hoarse with emotion. "I just… it's hard sometimes. And… it's stupid. I shouldn't be –you're going through a lot right now, and I… I just want to be here for you, and instead I'm… remembering…"

"Shh, it's okay," Kurt gently soothed him. "Let me help you _forget_…"

Kurt didn't even know he was going to do it until it was done, but the next thing he knew, his hand was on Blaine's cheek, tilting his face toward him, and his lips were on Blaine's mouth, silencing his guilty words. Blaine froze under the kiss, and Kurt's stomach felt a little uneasy, wondering if he'd just made a terrible mistake, if Blaine really wanted this like he seemed to, if Blaine could somehow _tell_ by the kiss just how damaged and dirty and _wrong_ Kurt was now…

And then, Blaine was kissing him back, his hand warm and steady at the back of Kurt's head, urging him in closer as Blaine slid down on the sofa so that Kurt was over him, controlling and deepening the contact.

It felt good, to be in control for a change, to reach out and claim what he wanted, to feel the sweetness of Blaine's mouth surrendering to his and welcoming him inside. It was a heady rush of power that Kurt hadn't realized he'd wanted until it was within his grasp – but now he caught it hungrily, fingers tangling in Blaine's hair and pulling him in close, as his other hand slid around to Blaine's back to run slowly up and down over the soft cotton of Blaine's shirt.

He knew it wasn't really what either of them needed, wasn't fair to do this to Blaine when he wasn't sure what he'd want ten minutes from now, when Blaine didn't know what had happened to Kurt, or how he was now, or any of the things he had a right to know if they were going to be doing this, but it felt so _good_ and so _right,_ and it just felt good to feel _good_ again.

Kurt knew he shouldn't be doing this – but the last thing he planned to do was stop.

Across town in the Lima Public Library, Finn was meeting with David Karofsky again, once more poring over the records on Kurt's case.

So far, they didn't have much to go on.

The most useful piece of information they'd found so far was Mercedes' description of the strange van she'd seen parked outside the Hummel house when she'd rung the doorbell, just before Kurt had managed to send her away.

"I wonder how hard it is to get DMV records on a vehicle like that?"

"No license plate number." Dave's voice was grim as he shook his head. "And there's gotta be like, a hundred white vans in the area that fit that description."

Finn sighed, rubbing a hand over his tired eyes before resting his head in his hands. "At this point, I'm ready to go through them all one by one. If I even knew how."

"And if the guy's even around anymore," Dave pointed out. "Hudson, I want to find this guy as much as you do..."

"Really doubt that," Finn muttered, but without any real venom.

Ignoring his words, Dave continued, "… I just don't know if it's possible. We don't have any evidence to go on. The guys wore masks, and they drove a vehicle that's probably the most common kind around, and… I don't know what to do next."

"So does that mean amateur hour is over?"

Both boys looked up, startled by the familiar voice.

Santana Lopez stood beside their table, arms crossed as she gave them a contemptuous smirk and took the empty seat that was positioned between them.

"Santana… what are you talking about?"

Finn didn't mean to sound as irritated and unfriendly as he knew he did. No, Santana wasn't exactly his favorite person at the moment, especially since Kurt seemed to prefer her company lately to that of his own _brother_ – but he had to grudgingly admit that she seemed to be able to help Kurt in some way that he couldn't even begin to understand.

And besides, she was scary as hell; there was no way Finn would have intentionally _tried_ to piss her off.

Thankfully, Santana didn't seem to mind his harsh tone. "I just mean that if you're ready to put this investigation of yours into the hands of someone who actually has a little experience with all things devious and underhanded – I'm all yours."

Dave frowned, suspicious. "Just what do you think you know about… uh… what we're doing?"

Santana smirked. "I think you _thought_ for some reason that you could conspire to take down the piece of shit who hurt Hummel, and make him pay for what he did. Without _me_." Her smirk became a sly, conspiratorial smile as she glanced between them, making sure they were catching her meaning. "And I think you thought _wrong_."


	31. Chapter 31

"We didn't ask for your help," Finn stated, and the words came out a little more coldly than he really meant them to. "And we don't need it."

"That's where you're wrong, Doughboy," Santana retorted, eyeing her nails with a smug, secretive smile. "Because for all the combined failure between the two of you that I could point out if I really wanted to, there's really just one reason why you'll never be able to pull this off on your own." She looked up to meet Finn's eyes for a moment before giving Karofsky a strangely knowing look. "You're both terrible liars."

"That's a _bad_ thing?" Karofsky sputtered out a nervous response, not quite making eye contact with her across the table. "Since when is _lying well_ something to be proud of?"

"Since _ever_," Santana replied without hesitation, "especially when you're trying to pull off this kind of thing. You boys need me, whether you like it or not – me, and my years of experience in the fine arts of deception and manipulation."

"We've got this," Finn insisted. "We know what we're doing. We've already been to the police, and we've talked to everyone who's working on the case… that they'd… let us… talk to, and we've got copies of all the official documents…"

"You mean, all the crap anyone with a library card can look up in the public records?" Santana was visibly unimpressed. "If _I'd_ have gone, I'd have twice as much information as you have now."

Karofsky frowned. "I don't think that's true…"

"You've never really seen me in action," Santana interrupted, confident and certain. "But Finn has – and he knows what I'm talking about." She stood up with a little shrug. "But what do I know? You guys were probably just about to find the guy all on your own. Don't let me stop you." She turned as if to walk away.

"_Wait_."

Finn avoided Karofsky's incredulous gaze, though he could still see it out of the corner of his eye. He didn't really want to involve Santana any more than the other boy did, but deep down… he knew that she was right. After all, she'd figured out what _they_ were up to, hadn't she? It wasn't as if they were getting anywhere in their investigation, anyway, so what could it hurt to have a fresh pair of eyes on – well, _everything_?

And besides that, now that Santana _did_ know about their scheme, keeping her out of it when she clearly wanted in could be a recipe for disaster. One thing Finn _did_ know about Santana Lopez – she could make your life a living hell if she wanted to, even _without_ the kind of ammunition this knowledge would give her.

_And… if she really can help somehow, then… maybe we_ should _let her_…

"Sit down," Finn sighed. "I think – we _could_ use your help. If you want."

"Of course I want to help." Santana cast a disbelieving glare across the table at Finn as she sat back down, arms crossed in front of her. "Hummel's my friend, and he didn't deserve what that creep did to him. I won't be satisfied until I've personally tracked the asshole down, chopped off his disgusting rapist junk and set it on fire in front of him, and then and _only_ then, gouged the eyes out of his fucking face."

Karofsky eyed her warily for a moment, but then slowly, reluctantly nodded. "Okay, then."

"But there's one condition before we get started." Santana's voice was quiet and calm, and she met Finn's eyes with a challenge in her own. "We're telling Kurt _exactly_ what we're doing."

"What? No!" Finn protested, abruptly panicked at the very thought.

"_Yes_." Santana was unrelenting. "He has a right to know."

"I can't tell him," Finn insisted. "He'll be so pissed off!"

"Well, _yeah_." Santana rolled her eyes. "If it was me, and you two were off pulling this shit behind my back, I'd kick your asses. You better believe he's going to be pissed off." She paused a moment for effect before concluding, "And whenever you _do_ find the guy, and this whole thing goes to trial, and he's dragged through court and has to tell the whole story to the entire world, and the whole time he had no idea it was even coming, no idea what you guys were doing… how pissed off do you think he'll be _then_?"

"But he knows the _police _are looking for the guy," Karofsky pointed out. "It's not like when he gets caught it's going to be some big _shock_…"

Santana pointedly ignored him, focusing her attention on Finn, eyes blazing with a quiet intensity. "He _trusts_ you," she stated quietly. "And you _know _this isn't right. Not this way. You want to stomp all over that trust, fine. But he trusts _me_, too, and _I'm_ sure not going to."

"What if he tells us to stop?" Finn's mouth felt dry, and the words came out weak and uncertain.

Santana shrugged. "I'm not saying you have to do exactly what he says about it. If he tells me to stop, I'll probably tell him, 'Not until the psycho's in the ground.' But we can't _hide_ it from him. He has a right to know what we're doing."

Karofsky had been quiet through most of the exchange, but he pushed his chair back abruptly, shaking his head. "_I'm_ not going to keep going when he says no. Which totally leaves me out of this, because _no way_ he's going to want _my_ help…"

Santana turned her steely gaze on him, clearly unimpressed. "_Or_ you could _man up_ and apologize. Actually make it right to his face instead of trying to ease your guilt by going behind his back like this. If you're sorry, then tell him, and let him know you really want to help."

Karofsky didn't reply, didn't look up… but he didn't stand up, either.

After a moment, Santana went on. "I have ideas," she stated. "Connections I think we should look into, ways we might be able to find out more than what the police will tell us. But before we do anything else, before I get into this at all, we need to go find Kurt, and you guys need to tell him the truth. And you should know before you make your decision that if you _don't_ – I _will_."

Kurt's lips were soft and seeking against Blaine's mouth, silently urging him to deepen the kiss, as the hand not currently tangled gently in Blaine's hair drifted down to rest near the hem of his shirt, which at some point in the last few minutes, Kurt had managed to free from the waistband of Blaine's slacks. Blaine's flawlessly gelled hair was now a disheveled mess of barely controlled curls, and he couldn't help wishing that Kurt's errant hand might venture a little further.

When they'd met at the mall that afternoon, this was absolutely the _last_ place Blaine had expected things to end up.

_He was so upset… this is just so_ fast…

"Kurt," Blaine whispered when Kurt withdrew for breath. "Kurt, are you _sure_…"

"No, Blaine, my lips and hands are moving independently of my own free will," Kurt shot back, his voice soft and breathless, but still carrying that unmistakable, razor-sharp Kurt-Hummel sarcasm. "God, I'm so sick of everyone telling me what I want and what I need and could you just _not_? _Please_?"

"O-okay," Blaine agreed, his breath catching as Kurt followed up his vaguely frustrated words with a soft kiss against Blaine's throat. "_God_, Kurt…"

For someone whose only experience with kissing consisted of a single unwilling kiss several months earlier, Kurt was surprisingly good at this, Blaine realized as Kurt pushed him down on the couch with eager, trembling hands, fingers once more edging along the hem of his shirt but not quite venturing under it. It was a delicious, thrilling tease that made Blaine want to give himself over to it, to simply enjoy what was happening, what he'd been _hoping_ would happen between them, without questioning it.

He'd wanted this for so long, and it felt so good, so natural and easy and…

Maybe that was it. Maybe it was just too _easy_.

_After all this time… me not being sure, and then Kurt not being sure, and with everything he's going through right now… that's the problem..._

_Why_ right now?

"Kurt… wait a second…" It was difficult to get the words out, with Kurt's mouth half-covering his own, and Blaine pulled away a little, trying to make eye contact. "Kurt… I just don't understand…"

"It's pretty simple math here."

One eyebrow was raised in a dubious look that made Blaine feel young and silly, and made him want to just shut up and go along with this, if only to make Kurt stop _looking _at him like that. And that was another problem, another factor contributing to Blaine's rising unease.

Wasn't this supposed to feel _good_?

Oh, physically, it felt _amazing_, but emotionally, it felt… rushed and off-center and… _empty_.

"I'm ready, Blaine," Kurt insisted. "You like me, right? You said you did. And I like you, and I'm _ready_ for this…"

"Well… what if _I'm not_?"

Kurt froze, staring down at Blaine with wide eyes, and Blaine took the opportunity to push him back enough that he could sit up on the sofa again. His face burned under Kurt's scrutiny, and he looked away, swallowing hard as he adjusted his rumpled clothing and then ran a shaky hand through his messy hair.

"I-I just… I can't help but think that… there's some reason that you're doing this… _now_, after all this time, and that… that reason… doesn't really have anything to do with… with _me_."

They weren't touching anymore, but Blaine still felt it when Kurt tensed up, his jaw setting in frustration, his expression becoming cold and rigid. "You know what, Blaine?" he snapped. "I'm not a helpless victim, and I'm not a child who doesn't know what he wants. If I didn't want to kiss you, I wouldn't have, and I don't need you trying to tell me whether or not I should and what's _best _for me." He was quiet for a moment, and when he spoke again, the slight tremor in his voice betrayed the uncertainty that he was trying so hard to hide. "If _you_ don't want to kiss _me_, then why don't you just say so?"

"I kinda think I just did!"

Blaine snapped back at Kurt without thinking, defensive, because this was just too surreal, everything he'd hoped to have with Kurt, offered and then snatched away in the space of a few minutes, and because he was just _really_ confused about what was even _going on_ here, and because Kurt suddenly seemed to be pissed off at him and he had no idea why.

Kurt flinched, and Blaine immediately regretted the words.

"That's… not really what I meant," he sighed. "Kurt, _of course_ I want to kiss you, but not like this, not when it's just because you're like… upset or something, and tomorrow when you're not so upset you might not be sure about… about us, anymore, and I just… want it to be because you _like_ me and not because you… you need something and you think I can give it to you and…"

"_Get out_."

Blaine stopped talking, his stomach lurching at the low fury in Kurt's words, barely over a whisper. He looked up at Kurt, wounded. "W-what?"

"I think you should go." Kurt's words were slow and measured, carefully calm. "Clearly you don't want to be here…"

Blaine shook his head in helpless frustration. "That's not what I _said_…"

"My dad's going to be home any minute," Kurt interrupted. "If you're refusing to leave, he can make you leave, and if he _knows_ you refused he'll be pissed, so I'd suggest you go now."

That thought was enough to send the nauseous, uneasy feeling in the pit of Blaine's stomach into panicked overdrive. He had only met Burt Hummel once or twice, but he'd clearly gotten the feeling that he was being sized up, his worthiness judged and found wanting. He knew from his friendship with Kurt that his father was fiercely protective, and also knew that at the moment, those protective instincts would be on high alert.

Being caught here by Kurt's father when Kurt didn't want him here was the absolute _last_ thing Blaine wanted.

"O-okay," he conceded, standing up and holding his hands out in front of him in a gesture of surrender as he took a couple of backward steps away from Kurt. "I'm going. I'm sorry." He hesitated, shaking his head as he added, "I don't know what I _did,_ but I'm sorry, and… I'm going."

The sound of the front door slamming made Kurt flinch, and he buried his face in his arms on the arm of the sofa, drawing in a series of deep, shaky breaths, trying to calm his nerves. He was alone in the house now, with no obvious threat – and yet he felt as if he was on the verge of another panic attack, his heart racing and his palms damp, light-headed and confused.

_What is wrong with you? Why did you do that? He didn't do anything, he doesn't even _know _anything, and you just threw him out of here like a crazy person…_

That thought was followed by another, darker realization, and Kurt shivered, mouth dry and stomach roiling.

_He doesn't know anything… doesn't know what happened to you… and still he could barely stand to touch you, didn't want to kiss you, just_ felt _that you're_ wrong_… ruined… You two are barely talking again, and you're throwing yourself at him like a little slut… no wonder he practically ran away screaming…_

_Something's wrong with you that can't ever be fixed._

The doorbell rang, and Kurt looked up, startled and hopeful at the same time.

_Maybe he came back. Maybe you can apologize and let him know that this wasn't his fault and still make it right before you lose even his friendship, let alone any chance of anything else…_

Kurt got up and hurried to the door, fighting the instinctive fear he felt when he reached it, that momentary panic at the thought that he might find a stranger there. It was broad daylight, and Blaine had just left, and his father would be home any moment, and it was perfectly safe…

Still, he found himself letting out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding when he opened the door to find only familiar faces standing there.

But… a more unlikely combination of familiar faces, Kurt really couldn't have imagined.

Finn stood there, an apologetic grimace on his lips as he met Kurt's eyes, and he was accompanied by Santana… and David Karofsky.

"Hey, Kurt." Santana was the first to speak up, her smile somehow warm and hard as steel at the same time. "Is this a bad time?"


End file.
